


One Wrong Step

by Sukunami



Category: Final Fantasy VIII, Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-31
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 13:59:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 162,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2231661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sukunami/pseuds/Sukunami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A private investigator locates a person from his past - someone he couldn't forget, and someone he can't leave alone</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

[Squall]

It is said that sharks can smell a drop of blood from over a mile away.  I wonder, then, what reporters smell such that a horde of them will descend upon the same police station in a feeding frenzy, demanding for information about the ugliest event happening in the nation today.

Keeping my distance, I watch from the corner of the street as a good fifteen or so vans clog up the meager parking area and the general area in front of the Fifth Ave Station.  Some of the reporters are clearly from out of town, the idiots dressed like Eskimos for weather that is technically freezing, but there's no wind to make it feel as cold as it sounds.  Streams of visible breath can be viewed from the reporters, some speaking directly to their cameras while the others do their little routines before going live.  It'll be impressive if anyone has a decent dose of information to give their viewing public.

It's no surprise why they are here - serial killers are excellent for ratings, after all - but that doesn't make the spectacle of hungry reporters excusable in any sense of the word.  If they had addressed the situation with any amount of tact, I would tolerate their presence in this city of Garden.  As it is, I have already caught some of the more questionable reports, including one that went into great detail about the forensics being used on the case and how the serial killer could potentially _avoid_ being caught by such methods.  Granted, the killer probably already knew to use gloves to prevent fingerprint detection, but honestly, who gives pointers to serial killers?

The horde of reporters shift excitedly when the door to the station opens, but murmurs of disappointment sound when the person isn't anyone of importance, at least in their terms.  Meanwhile, I straighten at the sight of a yellow beret that skillfully weaves through the collection of reporters, eventually emerging to reveal a rather petite woman wearing a coat that reaches her knees and shares the same bright material as her hat.  The brunette sends a withering glare over her shoulder at the reporters, but amazingly holds her tongue when she shifts her attention to the street.  Soon enough, she notices me with a pleased squeal that is easily heard despite the distance between us.

Trotting toward me with soft clicks from her low-heeled shoes, Selphie Tilmitt doesn't look much like a police officer, let alone her recently obtained rank of detective within the city's 'crimes against children' unit, but it doesn't take long for people to figure out that Selphie isn't a force to underestimate.  There are more than a few rumors going around about her dropping a man three times her weight and handcuffing him before he knew what was coming.  The state of his genitals afterward is of some debate, but I don't doubt that Selphie 'accidentally' stepped in the right place to gain some revenge for the children he had abused.

Her smile wide, though tired, Selphie doesn't slow down when reaching me.  Bumping against my side, she innocently wraps her arm around mine and looks up with warm green eyes.  "Squall," she says in an exhaled breath, "I can't tell you how happy I am to see that pretty face of yours."

I scowl down at the petite woman, silently announcing my displeasure with her attached to my arm.

"Oh poo, don't look like that.  I just want those vultures to think I'm meeting with my boyfriend and not my secret weapon for solving cases.  Got it?"

At the comment, I glance up at the horde of reporters and notice how more than a few eyes are upon us.  Vultures, indeed.  I place a hand on top Selphie's and nod my head in the direction away from the station.  "Shall I buy you some breakfast?  Maybe a few cups of coffee?"

Her eyes mischievous and bright, Selphie presses even closer to my side.  "I knew you were good for something."

The short walk to the diner that Selphie favors is surprisingly a quiet one.  Unlike her usual self, the detective leans heavily against my side in her exhaustion and yawns several times without reserve.  We gain more than a few glances from the occasional passersby, most of them probably wondering what a vibrant woman like Selphie was doing with a dour man dressed in an old bomber jacket and black leather pants.  It's none of their business, of course, but that doesn't make their stares any less bothersome.

The diner is a rather rundown place, but somehow maintains a classic mom-and-pop ambiance instead of appearing like the health hazard it probably is.  Selphie detaches herself from my arm and leads the way to the small booth located in the back corner.  Before I have the chance to sit down, an older waitress is there with a pencil tucked behind her ear, but no pad to write on.  At the question of 'whaddya want?', Selphie orders a light breakfast of fruit, toast, and decaf coffee; meanwhile, I shake my head at the suggestion of my own cup of liquid mud.

"No coffee?" Selphie questions with a raised eyebrow.  "I wake you up before noon and you don't need a caffeine crutch?"

I shrug at the idea.  "I had a stakeout the last two days and nights, and then you called before I found a bed.  I don't need something to keep me up for another several hours."

"Really?  Man, and I thought I had a late night," Selphie says as she rubs a hand over her face.  "I did a double shift with that 'Johnny Strangler' mess on our hands.  Another boy was killed, you know?  Barely nine-years-old.  And we're still trying to find the parents of the first three boys."

I shake my head at the information, now understanding the full reason as to why the police station was surrounded with twice the reporters compared to a few days ago.  Dubbed 'The Johnny Strangler,' an unknown person has been killing young boys who are either homeless, runaways, or otherwise unwanted since no one has claimed them.  Six months and four bodies later, the police have no apparent leads and no reported suspects.  While the victims thus far have been 'John Does,' the people of Garden have become nervous with thoughts about whether or not their child will be next and have only made things worse by attacking anyone who is a registered sex offender.  Such assaults have forced the police to divide their attention between protecting those perverts and actually investigating the case.  It's no wonder Selphie looks like she's about ready to collapse.

"If you need my help..."

Selphie smiles sadly at the offer.  "Thanks, sweetie, but there are so many people on the case that one more body may get in the way, especially when you're good at what you do.  We already have the Feds involved, and while most of us are grateful for the help, there are more than a few stupid men with sore egos who are making things difficult."

"The offer stands as long as you need it," I insist, though I understand the situation all too well.  Those on the police force are a prideful sort with good reason and they don't particularly care for outsiders to show up and demand for the information that had been painstakingly gathered over several months.  The key is to know the right people and the right time to ask questions, but even I tend to hit resistance whenever I occasionally help with a case.

"You're a good man, Squall Loire, but I need your patented skills for something else."

The waitress appears to set food and hot coffee in front of Selphie; meanwhile, I frown at the suggestion that the detective had contacted me because of my glorified ability to find people, something that is unfortunately the cornerstone of my business.

In all honesty, I never meant to become a private investigator when growing up.  Hell, I went to college to become an accountant, but when my father decided to retire from the P.I. business several years ago, he gave my name and number as a sort of 'forwarding address' for anyone who needed help.  The bastard never asked if I wanted this in my life, but I couldn't say 'no' to the more pitiful cases, especially those involving children.  It started as something small, a side business of sorts that blossomed into an unexpectedly viable occupation.  Word of mouth is an amazing thing, as I've discovered; however, it also means that I can't easily escape the reputation that has been built around me.  I dread the day someone will inevitably ask me to look for Elvis.

Selphie steals a large bite of her toast before saying around the mouthful, "So, I should probably warn you that you aren't going to take this case."

With a raised eyebrow at the statement, I ask, "Then why am I here?"

"Because I know all about your weakness and I'm not afraid to abuse it," she states with a impish smile.

Like I said, never underestimate this woman.

After another quick bite of toast and a mouthful of coffee, Selphie sighs in relief at momentarily sating her hunger.  "Well, I guess I should start at the beginning.  And I know, I know, you hate unnecessary details, so I'll try to keep it short."

Selphie takes a breath in readiness before beginning, "A couple months ago, I was assigned to a side project to organize and clear out some of the backlog for the Anonymous Tip Line and move the recordings to a server in California or somewhere.  See, you may not know this, but the thing is basically an answering machine and, man, all sorts of people leave messages.  There are the typical pranksters, as well as some confused people who report a crime that they had a dream about, a couple of drugged up idiots who don't know what they are saying, and on rare occasions, someone who actually has good information.  It gets pretty messy sorting through it all, thus the reason behind the project, and well, I needed the overtime," she admits.

"About forty messages in, I screened this one tip that detailed a date rape scheme at a popular fraternity, which I recognized instantly since it was the first case I worked when I became detective.  The guy had it all right - how high school 'good girls' were being lured to parties, the effects of the drugs given to the victims, and even a description for one of the bastards.  He _told_ us about it almost two weeks before my department had gotten involved and no one thought to pass along his message because..."  Selphie hesitates, her eyes flicking away from my gaze when she says, "While he hasn't out right admitted it, it sounds like the guy might be a psychic."

Before my skepticism is shown with anything more than a raised eyebrow, Selphie hurries to argue, "I know it sounds crazy, and trust me, I've heard from my share of con artists who claim to know where bodies are buried and will only tell us for the right price.  But this one guy... He gets to me.  He had _details_ that only the victims and rapists should've known, details that we learned about when two of the girls came forward."  Her eyes tired, Selphie rakes a hand back through her shoulder-length hair and clutches onto the strands.  "The worse part is that those sweethearts were raped in the two weeks after we had received the anonymous tip.  If someone, _anyone_ had listened to him and _believed_..."

"And would you have believed him before you knew he was right?"

Selphie glares at me for the inconvenient question, but she doesn't try to lie, no matter how much she wishes she could have saved those girls.

I sigh and lean back in my seat. "Did you consider that this person was one of the rapists?"

"Of course!  It was my first thought when I was listening to the recording, but I worked on that investigation and he wasn't among the bastards."

"How would you know when the messages are supposedly anonymous?"

"I'd recognize his voice anywhere," Selphie declares as she reaches into the inside pocket of her coat.  The retrieved Ipod is set onto the table between us and Selphie challenges, "Tell me that isn't one of the sexiest voices you've ever heard."

I stare at the bright pink Ipod decorated with a vast assortment of red and white hearts.  "I'll take your word for it."

"Not good enough.  See, that's a new message from the guy and it came just this morning.  The answering system was down last night, and with this 'Johnny Strangler' case blowing up in our faces, we had to do things old school until they fixed the thing.  An hour before the system came back online, I got that call," Selphie states with a finger pointed at the player.

I hesitate before I pick up the set of earbuds and place them in my ears.  Lifting up the Ipod, I glance at the playlist, and then look incredulously at the detective for the highlighted title of "Handsome #4".

Her grin innocent, Selphie says, "He never leaves a name, so I call him 'Handsome'.  I recently found two other calls by him, but those cases are closed.  Sadly, his information would've helped, but it's too late for all of that.  This call," she says while tapping the player, "needs your help now."

I frown lightly at her tone that is frustrated and worried, proving that Selphie has gotten her heart involved yet again.  It's a wonder that she's still sane after her last few months in the 'crimes against children' department.  Even so, I don't like it when she tries to drag me into her crusades.  "Don't assume that I'm taking this case."

"Just listen to it," Selphie demands while picking up her coffee.  "We'll talk about conditions later."

I glare at her for a long moment, a silent note of protest before I ultimately hit the play button.

The recording starts with a woman's voice, instantly recognizable as Selphie.  <"You've reached the Anonymous Tip Line.  What do you have for me?">

After a long pause with the muffled purr of street noise, a rough male voice eventually stammers, <"Uh, sorry, I think... I must've dialed wrong.  I wanted...  Usually, I leave a message...>

<"Nope, this is the right place.  The system is down, so we're doing things the old fashioned way until it's fixed,"> Selphie says, sounding friendly but bored with the explanation that she had probably given numerous times prior to this call.  <"Don't worry, it's still anonymous and your information is important to us.">

<" _...Shit..._ ">

My breath leaves me at the hissed out curse, the single word bringing back a rush of memories that were only vague feelings with the previous stumbling sentences.  I immediately glance at Selphie, worried that my sudden tenseness would be caught by the observant detective, but the brunette is lost in her own thoughts, her eyes unfocused on the nearby window.  Though my unwanted reaction went unnoticed, it takes several seconds to school my expression, a fact that irritates me as only one person could throw me off like this.  One person... and all I can think is that he sounds incredibly tired.

<"Sir, I assure you--">

<"Don't say anything,"> the man demands in a growl.  <"I just... I have to tell you this and I don't need somebody fucking around with me.  If you say a Goddamned word, I'll hang up and never call this number again.">  He pauses after the threat, as if wanting Selphie to say something and give him the convenient excuse to discard all responsibility associated to whatever he knows.  Selphie, however, is a stubborn woman, and while I can imagine that the brunette had stuck her tongue out at the phone in childlike pettiness, she would do anything for information that may help others.

When Selphie complies to the demand of silence, the man sighs irritably.  <"Listen, I didn't want to know this.  I didn't want to know _any_ of this, but...  There's a girl, a fucking angel of a baby girl who's two, maybe three-years-old.  She's going to be dumped in the middle of some forest by some guy in a large red pickup.  She keeps calling for her mother, but there are only huge pine trees around her, so no one hears her cries and screams.  There's also a sign, but she..." >  A sharp bang of metal sounds over the recording and I can imagine the man hitting the side of a public phone.  <" _I don't know what it says_.  There's a fucking sign that could tell me, 'you are here,' but I _can't_..." >

I frown when muffled and excited words can be barely heard over the recording, something that would've gone unnoticed if the caller hadn't suddenly gone quiet in his anger, not to mention the inconvenient drop in street noise.  I recognize the use of 'Handsome' in the faint discussion and I close my eyes at Selphie's poorly timed impatience.

The strained laugh that I was expecting comes over the line.  <"You're laughing at me.">

<"Wha _._..? _Wait_ , no, we aren't.  I swear we aren't.  We just recognize--">

<"No, _fuck **you**_.  I didn't have to call--" >

<" _Please_ , what does the girl look like?"> Selphie asks in a rush.  <"Do you have her name?  When is this going to happen?">

There is a long pause which could have easily ended with a disconnected line, but the man eventually answers in a cold tone, <"I don't know her name, but she has creamy brown skin and will be wearing a fancy white dress.  It's too flimsy for the cold, and if the weather report is right, it'll be snowing on her sometime tomorrow night.">  His clinical reply ends with the harsh declaration, <"And for your information, I don't like being the ass-end of a bad joke.">

When the caller hangs up with a harsh clang, Selphie mutters something about 'screwing up big time' and the recording ends.

Despite the finished track and the Ipod moving onto some vaguely recognizable pop song, I stare at the playlist and wonder what it would take to get copies from Selphie.  Technically, these should be police property and I bet she would get into trouble if anyone found out that she had made her own recordings, but I want them.  And if I was honest with myself, I _need_ them.

"So?" Selphie questions, gaining my attention.  "Will you find her?"

Removing the earbuds, I point out, "There was no real information.  I don't know how I'm supposed to find some infant when an entire mountain range of trees covers the west side of Garden."

"You've worked with less," Selphie claims with a pout.

"Not in my terms."

"But... But we can _stop_ this one."

I scowl at the comment.  "Isn't that what the police is for?"

"Mo-oh, nobody will do anything when everyone wants that 'Johnny Strangler' in front of an execution squad, especially when the only lead to find that girl is someone claiming to see the future.  Captain Kramer wants to help, but he has Mayor Norg breathing down his neck and watching his every move."

"You went to Cid about this?" I ask in surprise.

"Of course.  How do you think I got these recordings?  I'm not tech savvy enough to steal them without anyone noticing."  In a more serious tone, Selphie adds, "The chief says he hasn't been spooked by a guy like this in a long time.  While he hopes Handsome is wrong, he also hopes that you'll do something to help that little girl."

I close my eyes, irritated at Selphie's refusal to pull the punches.  She first lands me with a praying-for-a-miracle case where a child's life is threatened, and then casually throws Cid's name into the mix.  Logic would say that I've paid off my debts to the police captain; instead, Cid has innocently abused the fact that some debts can never be repaid.  I have no doubt that he told Selphie to mention his support for the case if I seemed reluctant to accept it.

"I want my normal retainer," I eventually state, and then open my eyes to meet Selphie's instantly cheered expression, as if my acceptance meant the girl was practically saved.  One of these days, I need to remind both her and Cid that I'm not a magician.  "I also want these recordings."

She blinks at the last condition.  "Well, that's easy enough, but why do you care?  I already told you that the other messages are about cases that have been closed."

"Those are the conditions.  No negotiations."

Selphie hums in consideration, a slow smile reaching her lips.  "Didn't I tell you that he has a great voice?"

I scoff at her assumption, but I'm not about to explain my reasons as to why I'd need these recordings.

A warm hand settles on mine, squeezing my fingers around the player I had yet to set on the table.  "Keep my Ipod and give it back whenever you're done.  Just promise me that you'll do everything in your power to find that girl.  I think... I'm almost certain that he needs it."

I stare at the brunette, uncertain what she means.

"Handsome," she replies to my unspoken question while clutching my hand tighter.  "Those other cases I mentioned, they didn't end well.  All of his messages, these four recordings and who knows how many others, were for nothing.  And because I messed up, he may never call again.  So this one... it has to mean something."

Though logic dictates that I have nothing useable to save the unknown girl, I find myself nodding at the detective's request.  "It'll mean something."

Selphie smiles brightly while pulling back her hand.  "Y'know, I didn't think you'd agree that easy.  You seem like the type to scoff at the idea of psychics and the supernatural.  Why are you playing along with this?"

"You'd be surprised," I supply with no additional information.  Standing up from my seat, I pocket the player and retrieve my wallet to drop a ten-dollar bill onto the table.  "I'll keep in contact as best I can, but... Selph, you know that I can't promise anything."

"Somebody is doing something - I can get some sleep knowing that," the brunette says with a tired smile.

I sigh at her overly hopeful nature, but I don't try to dissuade her.  Wishing her a 'goodnight', I leave Selphie to the rest of her small breakfast and the cup of coffee that had been refilled by the waitress when Selphie didn't wave her off fast enough.  The door jiggles quietly at my exit and the immediate brush of winter air is a welcomed relief, almost providing a sense of clarity after hearing that voice from my past.  Almost.

Doing my best to hide the heart-covered Ipod from view, I select the track named 'Handsome #1'.  Placing an earbud into my right ear, I briefly close my eyes at the low voice that doesn't hold the same passion or anger that I tend to associate to the speaker.  Granted, the last time I knew him, we were both teenagers coping with our own life problems, but it's hard to hear him like this - tired and resigned.  At least there was some comfort in the live call with Selphie, the man proving that he still has a short fuse, as well as proving that he isn't as beaten as he sounds.

While the voice describes a teenaged girl drinking a spiked bottle of water, I look down the street in the direction of my condo and consider the usefulness of getting a few hours of sleep before anything else.  It's extremely tempting, but the wind already has a feel of approaching snow.  Thinking of the terrified infant sitting God knows where, I turn around and walk in the opposite direction of my bed and shower.  While the information was sparse, there are reasons why children are left behind in remote areas, especially young children.  It's a long shot, but if I'm lucky, I'll find one of those reasons that also happens to own a red pickup.  After that... I should have enough free time to use on some investigating of my own.

* * *

Seated at a small table with an empty paper cup in front of me, I fiddle with the new Ipod that I was encouraged to purchase after a week of using Selphie's player.  Compared to the packed playlist the brunette favored, I only have about twenty tracks thus far and not a single song among them.  Instead, I had used a media program to dissect the recordings Selphie had given me as best I could, hoping to find details within the background noise to figure out the speaker's location.  Open on the table sits a notepad covered with messy handwriting and many scratched out lines, but I haven't added to the notepad in over a day.  The main lines contain the spoken warnings from the recordings, but I'm more interested in the slanted lines where I had added details about street noise, people's discussions, and other identifying features that could indicate where the anonymous calls had taken place.

It's amazing how many people practice their personalized coffee orders before actually entering the store.

Hardly listening to the track of rumbling cars that I've already heard more times than I can count, I stare out the window toward the icy street beyond and at the public phone standing innocently within view.  This isn't the first location I've considered, nor the second one, but the previous ones weren't quite right with the passage of buses.  Realistically, I imagine that I have about ten more potential targets in the weeks ahead of me.  I never noticed how many coffee shops exist within Garden, and the requirement of a public phone didn't limit things much.  It's almost as if the man was being difficult on purpose.

When the nine-fifteen bus comes and goes with the retrieval of a single passenger, I come to accept that nothing is going to happen this morning.  Frustrated, but not discouraged, I close the notepad and slip it into the inside pocket of my jacket before I glance at my empty cup and debate the matter of getting a refill.  In that moment of indecision, I barely notice a pair of women leaving the cafe, but the minor collision at the door catches my attention.  Not when it happens nor when one of the women apologizes profusely, but when a man replies, "Don't worry 'bout it.  Happens more often than you'd think."

I gaze up at the entrance and watch as a tall man with shaggy blond hair and a sharp smile holds open the door for the two women.  They whisper excitedly after passing him by, but the man doesn't seem to care as his smile fades and he steps inside, his attention focused on the counter.  My first thought is that he looks older than his twenty-eight years, most likely contributed to the stubble at his jawline and the dark circles under his eyes.  He also has a lean look that surprises me given my memories of the onetime football player.

It's a simple matter to assume that the last ten years haven't been good to Seifer Almasy.

While the blond goes to order his drink, I hit the stop button on my player for the first time in hours and wrap the headphones around its width before tucking it into a pocket.  Grabbing my cup, I move to the condiments bar and toss the piece of trash before leaning back against the solid support to watch Seifer pay with a handful of change for his large coffee.  Just as the server finishes counting the last pennies, the door opens to release a pair of young boys into the store.

I have a nasty feeling at the first sight of the energetic kids and how the taller one was playing keep-away with some action figure, but before the mother can finish her warning to stop the roughhousing, the younger one runs smack into the unaware blond.  At the hard jolt, Seifer unintentionally squeezes his recently obtained cup and the lid pops off just as it tilts forward, allowing the steaming coffee to pour out.  Showing speed of old, Seifer jerks aside the kid before hot liquid can fall on the boy's face, but that leaves the man's pants covered in the dark brew.

" _Son of a--_ " is all Seifer gets out before he remembers the impressible youths around him.

While the woman behind the counter promptly asks Seifer if he's alright, the mother grabs her son and scolds him for causing trouble, and then forces the teary-eyed boy to apologize.  Seifer waves off the apology, but readily accepts the offer a replacement drink from the server.  He gets his new cup of coffee, gives the concerned mother a patented smile to assure her that he's fine with the matter, and walks away from the counter.

It takes him four steps before he notices me.

Seifer stares at me as if seeing a ghost, his lips forming my name without making a sound.  And then his large coffee slips through his fingers to splatter onto the ground.  The second hit of steaming liquid against his legs makes the blond jump back a couple steps, breaking him out of his previous stunned state.  The glare he directs at me is hot with anger, as if I were somehow responsible for his lost coffee, but his expression quickly changes to an embarrassed winced as he glances back over his shoulder and at the server who had appeared with a mop to clean up the first spill.

"Sorry, I didn't mean... I mean, I _like_ the coffee here and would never waste it intentionally..."

The young woman smiles with honest sympathy.  "It's alright.  With that snow and salt outside, I had to wipe down the floors sooner or later.  But if you want another cup of coffee, you'll have to do something real nice for me."

"I think I've had enough coffee for today," Seifer mutters as he glances down at his ruined pants.  With an exhaled breath, he lifts his head and brushes aside the strands of hair that had fallen over his eyes.  "So, Loire, what are you doing in these parts?"

"Looking for you," I say casually, not caring how bad it sounds.

Eyes of bright sea-green shift warily at my declaration, but Seifer eventually smirks with sharp arrogance.  "Well, you found me.  Congrats and goodbye.  I have work."

I nod in understanding and allow the blond to walk two steps past me before I announce, "We found the girl."

Seifer stops at the words, but after a quiet moment, he tries to play stupid.  "The 'girl'...?  I don't know what--"

"The two-year-old you warned the police about.  She's safe with her aunt."  When Seifer doesn't say anything in denial or otherwise, I offer the man, "I could treat you to breakfast and tell you about it."

Seifer seems to consider it, but shakes his head.  "I can't... If I'm late again, even a minute past nine, the foreman is going to send me packing, so I have to pass."

I frown at the excuse.  "Nine?  It's already twenty after."

Seifer turns sharply at that information, his eyes wide in disbelief.  " _What?_   But I just looked..."  He glances at his watch and an odd shift of emotions crosses his face - vague hope, to anger, and ending with resignation.  "Of course.  Why wouldn't my watch stop?  It's not like nothing else has gone horribly wrong today."

Knowing that words would only upset the man further, I say nothing when he jerks at the leather strap of his watch and chucks it into the trash.  He runs a clawed hand through his hair and grits his teeth at the apparent loss of his job, looking about ready to punch something or someone.  After a tense moment when I consider how I'm within the range of his fist, Seifer abruptly turns his back to me and moves toward the glass door, which he opens with a surprisingly light touch.

Pausing halfway through the entrance, Seifer asks gruffly, "Are you buying me breakfast or not?"

"... Lead the way."

~ > < ~

I have offered many meals to a variety of informants in the past.  Some demand for high quality dining at the city's most respected steakhouse, others are satisfied with good food and good wine at a locally owned restaurant, and then there are the handful of people who want nothing more than an open tab for a night at whatever club they prefer.  I've probably been to every restaurant in Garden during my six years in this business, but I can honestly say that this is the first time I've been to a _Denny's_.

While I pass on the option of breakfast, Seifer orders a 'Grand Slam' with an extra side of bacon and a plate of hash browns.  Bravely, he also asks for some coffee to go with his meal, but notably moves the mug to the edge of table so that the elderly waitress wouldn't have to reach when pouring that first serving.  I can't blame him for that touch of caution.

"So," Seifer begins once the waitress wanders off to the kitchen, "Squall Loire became a cop.  That's somewhat surprising."

I smirk at his assumption.  "Not quite.  I took over my father's business some years ago, which includes being a consultant to the police."

"He-eh, you're a P.I.?" Seifer says lightly, but his gaze has an appraising edge.  "Y'know, while you don't look the part, I'll bet that you have a field day doing the investigator thing.  You can do stakeouts by your lonesome, expose lies for what they are, and hunt down cheating husbands and lying crooks.  It suits you in a weird way."

With an unconcerned shrug, I comment, "It pays the bills."

Seifer snorts out a laugh.  "Right, I forgot who I was talking to.  Anyone else would be talking about carrying a concealed weapon and taking pictures of large breasted mistresses, but you, you're just doing a job."

I don't bother defending myself, especially when the man's assessment is close enough to the truth.

At my silence, Seifer shifts his gaze away from mine and clears his throat before asking warily, "Earlier, you mentioned... that girl..."

"Hn, she's fine thanks to your warning."

Green eyes narrow into a harsh glare.  "My 'warning' was crap and you know it."

"And yet we still found her."

That reminder calms some of his frustration, but he still doesn't look in my direction when asking, "How...?  Just, how?"

"You were focused on the wrong part of the situation.  Because you saw that vision, you were worried about the 'what', meanwhile I was interested in the 'why'," I explain while removing a folded piece of newspaper from my pocket and set it on the table.  The obituary clipping is relatively short, but the picture of a beautiful woman with dark skin and a kind smile goes further to suggest her loving nature.  Sadly, the child on her lap shares the same curl of lips.

Seifer doesn't say anything, but the odd light to his eyes suggests that he recognizes the young girl.

"On a hunch, I visited a source who works the obituaries at the newspaper and learned about that woman who had died recently, leaving behind a two-year-old child and a fiancé.  My source instantly remembered that the man had been distraught, and when I asked about the child, she claimed that her 'woman's intuition' had sent off warning signals with his handling of the girl.  Not cruel, just reluctant somehow.  I decided to check out his address and found the red pickup in the driveway."

After glancing over the obituary for a second time, Seifer breathes a laugh and covers his face with a large hand.  "Shit, that simple, huh?  Goddamn it, I never even _thought_..."

"You were too involved," I offer logically.  "You saw that infant in the snow and became frustrated with the idea that you couldn't read the sign and figure out where she had been left.  It's not surprising that you were too distracted to think about the bigger picture of the situation."

"Right, not surprising at all," Seifer says in a self-depreciating tone.  "If you hadn't... Hey, wait a minute, how _did_ you get mixed up in this mess?"

"A detective by the name of Selphie Tilmitt suckered me into taking the case.  She was the one who talked with you on the tip line, and by chance, she recognized your voice from your previous tips that had proven true.  She contacted me the moment after you hung up on her."

He frowns at that information.  "But, she was mocking me.  I heard her talking with others."

"She's rather... excitable.  Once she recognized your voice, she was eager at the chance to use your information for a change, instead of someone else ignoring it."

At that moment, the waitress delivers a collection of plates and sets them out in front of the silent blond, just after he manages to take the newspaper clipping from the table and tuck it away into his pocket.  She asks the halfhearted question if we needed anything else, and is promptly on her way before Seifer finishes the shake of his head.  The man doesn't start directly into his breakfast, but instead stares at the hot food as if uncertain what he was supposed to do about the meal.  Eventually, he picks up a piece of bacon and bites into the greasy meat.  Grinning at the taste, he picks up a fork and digs into the rest of his breakfast.

Between mouthfuls of egg and hash browns, Seifer asks, "Can you guess the last time someone bothered believing me?"

I shrug, never one to enjoy guessing games.  "I haven't seen you in years."

" _Exactly_."

Stunned, I stare at the blond while he continues eating as if his comment was nothing of great concern.  I suppose that it's ultimately unsurprising that no one wants to believe a man who claims to see visions of the future.  Compounding the issue is Seifer's reluctance to share whatever information he learns, but that caution is understandable when others have been institutionalized for less.  And yet, despite that risk, he still tries to reach out when it matters.

"Let me give you Selphie's direct number," I offer, but Seifer stops me before I manage to reach into my inner pocket to find one of the cards Selphie had forced on me shortly after her promotion.

"Don't bother, Loire.  I know what you're trying to do, but I'm not interested in dealing with the police.  The moment something goes wrong, that lady of yours is going to call me up and demand for information that I don't have.  I'd rather live without that extra pressure."

"Then, what, your plan is to continue calling that tip line and hope your messages are heard in time?"

He shrugs and eats more of his breakfast before saying, "Frankly, I have bigger worries in my life.  I can't afford to continue playing this superhero game with helping people I don't even know.  And fuck, it's not like I'm actually helping anyone."

"That girl--"

"You saved that girl, Loire.  Not me.  And don't argue," Seifer demands with an egg-covered fork pointed in my direction.  "I had the same information as you, maybe even bit more, but _you_ made the connections.  _You_ protected her, while I..."  He laughs bitterly and says, "I could only dream about her frozen body and open eyes."

I say nothing while watching him eat, noting how he seems to fill his mouth with every forkful.  My eyes then drift to his clothing that is clearly meant for construction work, but they seem more worn than they should be, too many holes and tears that would let in icy winter air.  Of course, the bags under his eyes speak volumes about his sleeping habits, but more than that, his hair is longer than I've ever seen it at four or five inches and there isn't an ounce of product in sight.  I can't remember his hair without some level of gel since the eighth grade.

Considering all of that and making myself see the truth, it becomes painfully obvious that Seifer had stopped caring at some point in his life, and that realization terrifies me.

With a final mouthful of hash browns and a dangerous chug of coffee, Seifer drops his fork onto a cleaned plate and leans back in his seat to let loose a quiet burp.  "Man, I was hungrier than I thought.  I suppose it's a good thing I was fired today - it would've been a bitch to work on an empty stomach."

"Seifer..."

He slaps a large hand against the table, efficiently silencing my words and startling the waitress who was approaching with the bill.  Seifer directs an apologetic smile to the older woman before giving me a cooler glance of guarded green.  "Well, thanks for the meal, Loire, but I'd really appreciate it if you would stop stalking me.  Nothing personal, of course," he adds with a false smile.

Refusing to accept his request, especially when I know something is wrong, I ignore his stare and reach for the bill.

Seifer huffs at my lacking agreement, but doesn't press the point as he slides out from his seat and pushes up to his feet.  I half-notice him lift a hand to his forehead as if massaging a headache, but I glance away to pull a few bills from my wallet.  The sound of a short curse and a dull thump immediately draws my attention, and I stare dumbly at the sight of Seifer on the ground.

Seifer hisses through clenched teeth and rolls onto his side to clutch at his leg.  "Fucking _Hell_ , why did I have to fall on the knee?"

I frown at his obvious pain, but don't feel particularly forgiving of the man who confuses me more than any other.  Seifer has never done anything to suggest that he hates me, but he has always played this game of inviting me along, and then keeping me at arm's length.  The ridiculous part is that I continue to fall into his trap, even though I know how it's going to end time after time.

Dropping a few bills onto the table, I push out from the booth and stand over the blond.  "Need help?"

Seifer barks out a laugh.  "Nah, I'm just fine.  Can't you tell?"

I bend down and hold out my hand, a simple offer that Seifer considers warily before accepting.  Though the man is nearly a foot taller than me, it doesn't take too much effort on my part to pull him up from the ground, and when he sways dangerously on his good leg, I use my grip on his hand to wrap his arm around my shoulders.

"Damn it, Loire, I'm not--"

"You're hurt.  Let me help before you make it worse."

Seifer glares down at me for a long moment before scoffing and jerking his gaze elsewhere.  "Fine, do whatever floats your boat."

Nudging him forward, I lead the limping blond outside of the diner, some of the staff watching us carefully as if waiting for a lawsuit to happen.  Seifer shivers at the first brush of winter air, but says nothing while focusing on his steps.  We reach the curb of the sidewalk where I stop and look up at the blond, asking the silent question of 'where to next?'

Seifer blinks at the request.  "What, don't you already know where I live?"

"If I did, would I have been looking for you in coffee stores?"

He considers that fact before pointing at the intersection down the street.  "I'm a couple blocks that way.  If you see a rat, it's probably heading to my place along with the rest of the vermin in the city, so just follow the plague ridden bastard."

We move slowly down the sidewalk and its patches of ice, Seifer's hold on me gradually strengthening as he surrenders to the fact that he needs my support.  For the first time that I can remember, my thoughts are quiet as I simply feel this moment - his rough hand held within mine, his natural heat felt despite layers of clothing, and his quiet growls of frustration caressing my ear.  It's a cruel, temporary reality that will haunt me for the rest of my life... but that assumes the fact that Seifer hadn't already cursed me years ago.

"It's a football injury."

Stopped at the corner while waiting for the light to change, I glance up at Seifer for the statement made without prompting.

"My knee," he clarifies.  "It happened in the middle of my freshman year.  I had just thrown the winning touchdown when I got trampled to the ground by some steroid-fueled fucker.  I twisted my knee and that was it.  Goodbye football, goodbye scholarship, goodbye future."

The light changes and I pull Seifer forward.  "You were stupid to place all of your hopes on a physical sport."

"You don't have to tell me, Sherlock," the blond scoffs.  "I just wanted to make certain that you didn't get it into your brain that I'm a fragile flower who'll fall apart with a strong breeze."

"Why would I think that?"

I can feel the sharp stare of green without meeting his gaze, but Seifer refrains from his typical sarcasm.  Instead, he places a little more of his weight onto my shoulders and gives better directions about which apartment building was his.  As suggested by his rat comment, the building has the look of a place that is a year or two from being condemned, which is a shame since it would have been a decent place if an ounce of effort had been put into general maintenance.  We take the stairs to the third floor, Seifer making the statement that the elevator was a deathtrap.  It's a minor help that the handrails are sturdier than they look.

Once we reach the third floor, I pause with the intention to take a quick breather, but Seifer doesn't seem to share that mindset as he mutters a quiet series of no's before pulling his arm from around my shoulders and hurries down the hall.  Curious at his sudden urgency, I take a closer look at the stretch of hallway, but only notice an old man entering his apartment and a group of movers hauling a ratty couch from the last door on the floor.  However, when Seifer hobbles directly for the end of the hallway, I have a vague feeling of what could be happening.

"Hey, hey, what're you doing?" Seifer demands as he places a hand on the old couch.  "I have another day!"

"Today is the 29th," a man with a clipboard announces, his marshal badge displayed on a chain around his beck.  "Your stay of execution expired yesterday, and since you didn't move out, we're here to 'help' with the process."

Seifer stares at the marshal, disbelief dulling his gaze before he steps back and runs a hand through his hair.  The loss of anger suggests that the blond knows he's in the wrong somehow, whether miscalculating the days he had within his stay of execution, or because he didn't realize what day it was.  Deciding that it was embarrassing enough for Seifer to be caught in the middle of an eviction, I don't move further than the midway point in the hall and lean back against the wall to watch and wait.

With a tired sigh, Seifer asks the marshal, "What will it take to get my stuff back?"

The man flips a page and holds out his clipboard for Seifer to read.  By the widening of green eyes, it can't be a pretty number.

"But... my shit isn't worth _half_ of that."

"Moving and storage fees," is the explanation he gets.

"You haven't _moved_ or _stored_ **_anything_** _!_ "

The marshal directs a critiquing eye at the blond.  "Do you have any money on you now?"  At Seifer's silence, the man huffs and says, "By the time you get cash, everything _will_ be moved and stored.  Now, unless you want something, I suggest letting us get our job done in peace."  At the declaration, the two movers with the marshal do the 'intimidating brute' routine with arms crossed and teeth bared, prepared for a fight that they've probably endured many times before in their profession.

Seifer sneers at the act, but doesn't take the bait.  "Fine, whatever, then I'll just grab a few things.  Cloths and shit.  Is that alright with you?"

The marshal shrugs and motions the movers to take a short break.

Seifer enters his apartment and takes his time gathering whatever belongings he deems savable.  Meanwhile, I stay in place, unconcerned with the odd glances from the movers who were probably waiting from some kind of sermon about being evil, heartless bastards who kick out poor souls onto the streets.  Frankly, if a person can't pay the rent, they shouldn't be in that apartment.  It's an unfortunate situation, but people tend to forget about the landlords who also have mortgages and bills to pay.

After about fifteen minutes or so, Seifer appears with a duffle bag strapped over his shoulder and his limp a bit more pronounced.  He looks past the marshal and movers, obviously protecting himself from the urge to punch someone for this latest collapse in his life.  His guarded eyes barely glance my way as he continues down the hallway, leaving the decision to me whether I want to follow or not.  As if I could choose anything else.

I don't offer any help as Seifer climbs down the stairs at a slow pace, his knuckles white on the railing.  Surprisingly, Seifer is silent during the trip down three floors, only once cursing when he nearly loses his footing.  He slams the flat of his hand against the door leading outside and continues down the last few steps to the sidewalk.  While I stay near the building entrance, Seifer walks to the curb where he stops and casually lowers his duffle bag containing the remains of his life to the cement ground.

"Have you ever felt like you took the wrong path?" he asks seemingly to no one, his back held to me.  "Like you took a wrong step somewhere, which led to another wrong step and _another_ , until you're way off track and you don't know how to get back to where you were?"

"... Everyone gets lost every now and again."

Seifer snorts at that.  "You didn't.  You never do.  You just take all of the shit in your life and manage to keep walking forward like it was nothing."

I frown at the unfair assessment.  "It's never _nothing_."

The blond slumps slightly at the declaration, almost looking back at me.  "Sorry, I didn't... Your mother... Is she still at that institution?"

I don't reply, but it's an answer enough for him.

"Shit, I... I'm really..."

His unspoken words and hints of guilt help to settle a decision I had avoided making while waiting for him to collect his belongings.  Funny how it seems so obvious now.  "I have a spare room."

Seifer hesitates before asking, "Why do you give a fuck, Loire?  It's not like we were ever friends.  We just kind of... grew up at the same time and in the same place.  You're going overboard with helping me out and I don't get why."

Because it hurts to see him when I feel so little with everyone else around me.  Because I'm driven to help him even when he doesn't want my aid.  Because he is the exception to every rule I have made in my life.

But there's no use in saying those things, not when they'll mean nothing to Seifer.

At my silence, the large man turns slightly to look back over his shoulder.  "Are you still gay?"

I suppose it's technically a reasonable question given my offer, but it doesn't stop me from retorting, "I don't know.  Are you still blond?"

Green eyes narrow before Seifer looks away from me again and runs his fingers deep into his hair.  "Fuck, you know that I never harassed you about that back in high school.  It's not like I cared, but in _this_ situation, it has a different meaning."

"Why should it?"

After a brief pause, Seifer chuckles at my question.  "Look at me, a stray dog on the street being picky about the handouts he gets.  It's no wonder that no one wants to take me in."

Sighing at his tone, I step down the cement stairs and move next to the larger man.  "You need a place to stay.  I have extra space.  It's nothing more than that."

Eyelids drooping, Seifer continues to avoid my gaze.  "It's always something 'more than that'... But I don't care.  I'm so fucking tired right now that I'll strip down to my birthday suit and sleep in your bed if that's what it'll take to get a few hours rest."

"That won't be necessary," I reply as I pull my cell phone from my pocket, prepared to call a taxi.  My motorcycle was left at the coffee store, but it would be burdensome for the both of us to ride it.  I purchased the thing for my own convenience, not to play carpool with Seifer and his duffle bag.

As 411 directs me to a local taxi company, I glance at the blond and notice the odd focus of his eyes on the street in front of us.  His lips tighten in an angered grimace, an expression usually reserved for people who have done something to earn his ire.  It's strange seeing the same expression directed at empty air, but I'm quickly distracted by someone answering my call and asking for a pick-up address.

When I put away my phone, Seifer abruptly announces, "I'm going to get another job, ASAP, and I'll pay you back.  One way or another, I'll pay back every cent you've wasted on me."

I almost tell him to stop being ridiculous, that the room is there whether he uses it or not, but I stop myself before saying the words.  Though pride can bring a man amazing strength, it can also be a surprisingly fragile thing.  To tell him that his honor and money are worthless to me would relay the wrong message to this prideful man.  It could also further the misunderstanding that I expect some other form of payment for my help.

Instead, I nod and inform him, "I know you will."

Seifer blinks and finally looks at me, his lips curling into a vague smile.  "You're full of surprises, Loire.  It makes it hard to guess your next move."

I shake my head, unable to believe that I could be as complicated as Seifer.

His smile widening, the larger man moves close and places an arm around my shoulders, his weight instantly felt.  "Damn, my knee hurts.  I hope you have a heating pad in this place of yours, Sherlock."

Stunned by Seifer using me as a support without prompting, I stare up at him and take more than a moment to understand what he had said.  Before I can reply that I have a heating pad, as well as large bath for him to use at his leisure, a yellow cab pulls up in front of us and the driver asks if we're the ones who called for a ride.  Too quickly Seifer's arm pulls away from my shoulders and he exaggerates his limp when grabbing his duffle and climbing into the back of the taxi.  Right, can't look bad in front of the driver.  However, when Seifer sighs once seated and strongly massages his knee, I wonder if he had overdone it to walk out of the apartment building without some help.

Slipping in next to the larger man, I give the driver the intersection close to my building, and then lean back in my seat to think about what mess I've gotten myself into.  I started the day thinking about my meager chances at locating Seifer in a random coffee store, and now I'm somehow taking him home like the stray dog he claimed he was.  But I know better than to believe that.  More than a stray dog, I'm letting a wolf into my home, and once he is fed and well rested, he'll tear me apart with his claws and teeth.  I _know_ that, but my mind refuses to suggest any other option that could help Seifer in this situation better than _I_ could help him.

While I stare out the window in thought, the taxi makes a sharp turn and Seifer, already drifted off to sleep, slides up against me in an awkward slump.  With a whine of complaint, but not really waking, Seifer adjusts his body to rest more comfortably in his seat and nudges his head against my shoulder.  I look down at the man and feel some regret that his face is mostly hidden by his golden hair, but I quickly realize that I'm getting too deep into a fantasy, one that will end sooner than later.  Even so, I'm unable and unwilling to push Seifer aside, especially when the erratic driving of the taxi would more likely than not land the blond back against me, or else in my lap.  Or so the excuse goes.

Returning my gaze to the world outside of the cab, I endure the heavy weight of the blond and curse myself for enjoying the heat of the wolf that I stupidly dragged back into my life.


	2. Chapter 2

[Seifer]

This was a mistake.

A big fucking, man-am-I-going-to-regret-this mistake and I haven't a clue what to do about the situation.

My knee throbbing in pain and an old duffle bag strapped over my shoulder, I stand at the threshold to Squall's place, not yet entering the clearly expensive condo.  Places are funny things.  Most are just that--a place made from wood and brick and nothing really special.  And then there are _homes_ , places that are heavy with... importance, I guess.  It's hard to understand what makes a home different than other places, but it's impossible to miss, and despite the visibly sterile appearance of the condo with hardwood floors, dark furniture, and nothing out of its place, this is clearly a home.

Normally that wouldn't be such a bad thing, maybe even a quiet relief after years of living in whatever crap apartment I could afford, but since the moment Squall unlocked the door and stepped inside, this home accepted me without wariness or question.  That isn't how this sort of thing is supposed to work, especially for a person who is basically a stranger in Squall's life.  I can only assume that such an event means that I missed something important when it came to this guy's motive in helping me out and I'm probably not going to like it.

While I try to understand Squall's benefit in all of this, the man in question casually removes his leather jacket to hang it on a nearby coat stand.  Beneath the old jacket, he wears a gray sweater that fits snugly to his body and shows every line of lean muscle when he removes his boots, the sight of which suggesting that Squall had continued the regiment from his track-and-field days in high school.  If I remember right, the brunet could run a five-minute mile and hardly break a sweat in those first several miles of a marathon.  He could've done amazing things with more training, but as Squall already informed me today, only idiots with foolish dreams place all of their hopes onto physical ability.  Squall never was a fool, which makes me wonder what kind of game he is playing now.

"Listen, Loire" I say while adjusting the strap of my duffle bag, "I really appreciate the offer to stay here and all, but after seeing this place, I'm thinking that it's too rich for my sort.  There's no way I can pay rent or anything like that and--"

"I don't expect you to pay rent."

I frown at the statement that contradicts our earlier agreement about me staying with him.  "We agreed that I would pay you back for all of this."

"And that's fine, but you're the only one to mention rent.  That room is here and paid for whether you're around or not.  Rent is pointless."

"Don't fucking split hairs with me, Loire.  Any normal person would charge rent for someone staying with them."

"Maybe, but..."  Squall runs a hand through his thick, chestnut hair and exhales a long breath.  "Would you, instead, consider this as my attempt to repay you?"

"Repay me?  You don't owe me anything."

"You saved my mother," he states, impressively without much inflection either way despite the pain it must cause him.

With a curse at the reminder of the past, I correct his view point, "She and those kids wouldn't have needed saving in the first place if I had done something sooner."

Squall shrugs indifferently.  "You didn't have to come forward at all, especially when there was no reason for anyone to believe you."

"... You did."

He nods without truly understanding what that simple fact means to me.  "And your information saved her from death."

I scoff at the idealistic point.  "That would imply her life since then has been worth living."

A harsh sheen enters blue-gray eyes before Squall abruptly turns and steps toward his kitchen, soon pulling a pot and pan from the hanging rack over his stove.  The clang of metal against metal when he drops them onto the stovetop makes me wince at my thoughtless words.  Fucking hell, it's no wonder that I've managed to chase away all of my friends in the past several years.

Squall pulls out an armful of food from his refrigerator before glaring at me, as if wondering why I'm still around.  "If you want to leave, Seifer, then leave.  You aren't doing me any favors by staying here."

Despite the harsh words, I can still feel the strength of this home around me, welcoming me like I'm a missing piece to some mysterious puzzle.  It makes little sense, but maybe... maybe this is just Squall's silent way of accepting me as his mother's savior and my sleep deprived mind is trying to make connections which don't exist.  At the end of the day, I haven't a fucking clue how Squall's mind actually works, especially when he seems logical to a fault, but he's still willing to trust a medium with a shaky reputation like mine.  For all I know, Squall has a bad habit of taking in strays, but prefers people over pets since they tend to be cleaner and actually understand when he yells at them for shitting in his shoes.

... Fuck it, I'm so tired that my thoughts don't even make much sense anymore.  I don't know how I have the energy to keep looking at this gift horse in the mouth.

With a careful step forward, I reach back and close the door, but leave my hand on the knob when my knee stiffens to the point of stealing away my balance.  Squall glances over his shoulder at the sound, a flicker of some unidentifiable emotion crossing his face before he frowns deeply and places the tomato he had been washing onto the counter.  When the brunet strides purposefully from the kitchen, I realize that I had been grimacing at the pain of my knee.  I try to relax my expression, but it's too late.  Before I can speak a word edgewise, Squall steals the duffle bag from my shoulder and promptly takes its place at my side before forcing me to use him as a support once again.

"You should take a shower and get some sleep," Squall says as he pulls me toward a short hallway with two doors--one is wide open to reveal the sparkling clean bathroom beyond, while the other door is pushed open to reveal a bedroom that is almost the same size as my entire apartment... rather, my former apartment.  "I'll wake you up for dinner, unless you think you'll need more sleep than that."

With a shake of my head and a mutter that, "Dinner sounds good," I slide my arm free of the shorter man's hold and hop to the Queen-sized mattress that sits on a frame made of real wood.  Hell, the last time I had a mattress on a frame was back in college and living in the dorms.  I never would've guessed how something like that could be considered a luxury.

"Do you have clean clothes?" Squall asks as he begins to unzip the bag hanging off his shoulder.

"U-uh, I'm good," I state lamely while trying to grab my duffle, but the brunet is too fast for something like that.

"Oh God, Seifer, these _reek_ ," Squall complains with his nose wrinkled in disgust.  "You can borrow some clothes until I get these washed."

"Thanks for the offer, but you're not my size," I point out and try a second time for the bag.

Stepping just out of reach, Squall turns and heads out of the room while saying, "My uncle keeps some clothes here.  They'll be too big on you, but at least they're clean."

I punch the mattress before I force myself into standing and hobble after the neat-freak.  "If they belong to your uncle--"

"He won't mind," Squall assures from beyond the kitchen, where he then turns sharply into an unseen area of the condo.

"Damnit, Loire, I have shit in that bag that isn't laundry.  Can't you wait a fucking--"  I stumble around the corner to find Squall squatting in front of a closet that holds his washer and dryer.  At his feet lies my duffle bag, wide open to reveal the embarrassing collection of stained and torn clothes, and smack in the middle for anyone to see is a foot-long, royal purple, stuffed dragon with once-shiny silver horns and wings.  Incidentally, his name is 'Dog'.  ... I wasn't exactly the brightest kid back when I got the thing.

Glancing up at me, Squall lifts a dark eyebrow in open question.

"Like I said, it's not all laundry," I say, unable to make my voice firmer than an embarrassed mutter.

Full lips quirk into a near smile, the first I've ever seen from the quiet brunet.  Frankly, I didn't think the guy had it in him.

Unable to determine if Squall was silently laughing at me or not, I defend Dog's existence amongst my other saved possessions.  "I got the thing from my mother, alright?  She won it for me at some cheap-ass carnival when I was a kid.  It's the only thing I have left of her and I'm not ready to get rid of the stupid beast just yet."

Squall hums lightly at my explanation.  "And why would you get rid of it?"  The question stumps me as I watch the brunet carefully remove the stuffed dragon from its hiding place, and soon after, he huffs in angered disappointment.  "It smells worse than your clothes.  I'm going to have to wash the thing by hand."

Dumbfounded by the declaration, I struggle to put together a decent argument against Squall going the extra mile for my freeloading ass.  "You don't... I mean, it's not... It's just a _stuffed animal_ , for fuck's sake."

"It's a memory of your mother and it should be treated with respect," Squall states with no room for opposition.  He then returns to his previous task of sorting through my clothes.  Suspiciously, he makes two piles that have nothing to do with colors, but I can't quite determine his apparent system.

"Y'know, Loire, I can do my own laundry later--"

"Go take a shower.  I'll bring you some fresh clothes and a heating pad for your knee in a moment."  When I hesitate at the appealing order, Squall glances up at me and asks in a softer tone, "Unless, do you need help getting there?"

More from pride than honesty, I shake my head at the offer and push up from the wall to hobble towards the guest bathroom before Squall does something else to frustrate the shit out of me.  This is one of the reasons why I never became friends with the guy back in the day--he confuses me like no other person I've met.  He's always been quiet, which others automatically assume to mean he's introverted; meanwhile, I know that his silence is due to his habit of watching people.  No one else seemed to notice or care when those pale eyes would settle on them, but I felt it every time.  It was like Death judging me and fuck if I know how I passed that judgment each time.

Stepping into the bathroom, I move directly to the counter and brace my hands at the cool tile to remove some of the weight from my knee.  I take a few breaths to calm my hurting body, and then glance up at the wide mirror to stare at the reflection that I've grown accustomed to in the past several years.  The circles under my eyes are darker than usual, but it's no surprise given my recent nightmares over that baby girl who was about to be deserted by her almost step-father.  Rubbing a hand at my jawline, I sigh at the stubble that has gotten thicker in the three days since I gave up on my last razor, the cheap thing reaching the painful point of lopping off more skin than hair.  That along with my unkempt hair, I sadly fit the role of a homeless bastard.  I don't know whether to be worried or relieved that Squall had recognized me in this state.

"Look at ya, preenin' like a fuckin' queer... In a queer's bathroom, at that."

Scowling at the raspy voice, I shift my gaze along the mirror to see an older man standing behind me.  The prick is nothing special, a ghost of a man in his late forties who wears the army fatigues that he had earned during some war, probably Vietnam.  He's tall and lean with some decent definition in his muscles, his dirty blond hair sticks out at all ends, and his pale blue eyes have little humanity left in them.  While he may have been handsome at one point when alive, his current appearance makes me think of a coyote--wild and hungry--and I hate how I've been starting to look more and more like the bastard with every new night of lost sleep.

"Gettin' ready to bend over for yer food, boy?"

"It depends," I bite out in irritation at his sharply mocking tone.  "Would me being gay ruin your afterlife?"

Frozen blue eyes narrow at the suggestion, any previous humor lost when the phantom declares, "No boy of mine is queer.  And ya better leave here if ya don't wanna get infected."

"I'm _not_ your boy," I ground out at the homophobic bastard, his words nothing new after his rant from earlier today when Squall and I were standing in front of my old apartment building.  It didn't matter that I was officially homeless, in addition to penniless--accepting Squall's offer of a clean bed was somehow unacceptable.  Normally, I'd laugh at causing this man any amount of pain, but he stepped over the line with some of the things he called Squall.  I didn't like it when the other jocks called Squall those things back in high school and I definitely don't like a raping bastard using the same words.

"Yer my blood," he argues with a crazed smirk.

"I was a mistake," I say quietly, hating that I have anything to do with this bastard.  Twenty-nine lives were ruined by his existence--thirteen women raped by his cock and sixteen men nearly beaten to death during his so-called robbery attempts.  No one cried when he was killed in prison.  The bastard deserves an eternity in Hell, but he somehow dodged that bus.  Meanwhile, I'm unlucky enough to be shackled with his ghost simply because he raped an innocent and beautiful psychic.

"Yer _mine_ , boy, and no kin of mine is goin' to associate with a faggot fuck."

Instead of the anger I should feel at the demand, my lips slide into a strange smile and I nearly succumb to laughter.  "You know, Loire has a nice face and plenty of experience.  I'm certain he'd be gentle if I asked him to _associate_ with--"

A light knock sounds at the door, startling me as I jerk back a step and stare at the dark wood.  Once I realize that Squall had promised a clean set of clothes, I curse at my lowered defenses and prepare myself for inconvenient questions from the brunet.  Standing just outside, Squall shows nothing in his expression, but I recognize the slight tilt of his head that makes me think of a cat ready to pounce.

"Were you talking to yourself?"

And leave it to Squall to be straightforward about a matter that others wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole.  "Yeah... kind of..."

A dark eyebrow lifts in a curious arch, and with eerie accuracy, he glances to the side of the bathroom where the phantom had been standing the moment before Squall's interruption.  In fact, it's interesting that the old man had bolted instead of sticking around to insult the brunet further.  In his quiet way, Squall hums lightly as if understanding everything and doesn't ask for additional details when he holds out the folded clothing in his hands.

"The pants will be too wide for you, so I included one of my longer belts.  Let me know if that doesn't work.  I also left the heating pad on your bed."

I accept the clothes with a muttered thanks, but when Squall begins to move away without demanding anything more from me, I speak out in a rush, "It was a dead prick who drives me crazy and I don't like talking about it."

Squall stops at the confession, but doesn't appear overly concerned by the implication that I speak with dead people.  Instead, he glances at me in brief thought, and then asks, "Earlier, in front of the apartment building, was he saying something to you?"

Stunned, it takes a moment before I can ask in return, "How...?  How did you figure that out?"

"I happened to notice when you, for no reason that I saw, became upset while I was on the phone," Squall replies, and then shows that slight smile of his.  "An irritating ghost makes more sense than you being angry at empty air."

My surprise slowly fades to something akin to amusement and I find myself smiling back at the brunet.  "You're pretty damn impressive, Sherlock.  I keep forgetting that I shouldn't underestimate you."

"I doubt that.  Instead, maybe you forgot how to handle someone who believes you," Squall corrects in a soft tone.  When I have nothing to say in response, he bows his head in understanding and changes the subject, "There are extra toothbrushes and razors in the drawer if you need them."

"Is that a suggestion?"

His smile broadens slightly, but he doesn't answer either way.  "Enjoy your shower, Seifer.  I'll wake you for dinner."

When Squall walks away, I watch him for a few steps and think about everything I may have lost by deciding years ago to avoid the dark-haired man.  It was a stupid decision made by a stupid kid, but I know that it couldn't have gone any other way.  I had a heap of unwanted powers to stress my young mind, not to mention an unforgiving ghost trailing after me, and the idea of befriending a known homosexual was too much to bear.  It didn't help that Squall was... well, Squall.  He has always been too honest for his own good and I knew that he'd drag me down with him into that righteous existence.  He would've forced me to do right by my powers and that wasn't a part of my grand plan... for all the good that plan did me in the end.

After closing the door, I break into the stash of toothbrushes and paste, and though I finger a new razor, I decide that I'm too tired to navigate a sharp object; I'd sooner end up with a sliced throat instead of a clean shave.  I turn on the shower to a near scalding temperature before I strip off the layering of clothing I had piled on this morning, back when I thought I'd be doing construction work today.  Easing under the showerhead, I sigh at the caress of water and try to remember the last time I had a truly _hot_ shower.  I decide to enjoy the occasion for everything it is worth and lazily brush my teeth for the two standard minutes, maybe a bit longer, before I get to work on the rest of my body.  Stealing from the shampoo and conditioner containers already in the shower, I get a good lather going in my hair that has gotten too long for my likes.  Maybe I'll get myself deeper into debt and ask Squall for a few bucks to cover a barber's fee.

I haven't a clue how long I stay in that shower, but eventually I yawn deeply enough that I nearly choke on the flow of water.  Deciding that sleep has finally become the greater necessity, I step out from the shower and grab a deep blue towel hanging nearby.  I rub down my body, somewhat satisfied by the rosy red color of my skin from the heat of the shower.  Once dry, I pick up the pile of folded clothes Squall had left for me, and I'm somewhat surprised to discover that he definitely wasn't exaggerating--the shirt and pants are definitely too big for me.  Shit, and I'm not a small guy.  It's hard to believe that some kind of ogre exists in Squall's bloodline... and I hope to God that this 'uncle' won't actually mind me borrowing his clothes

After slipping on the blue bowling-style shirt and a pair of khakis held up with one of Squall's belts, I fish through my discarded clothes to find the newspaper clipping Squall had given me.  I study the face of the smiling mother and the baby she had left behind, both of them so beautiful in a moment they'll never share again.  I bet it was the mother who brought me those visions of her child, at the same time placing her fears and worries onto my tired shoulders.  While I can't blame her much, the situation certainly wasn't pleasant from my end.

I tuck the clipping into the front pocket of my shirt, and after gathering my clothes, I open the bathroom door to release a cloud of steam into the relatively cooler hallway.  Shivering at the difference in temperature, I glance at the guest room at the end of the hall, but hesitate when the first smells of tomato sauce reaches my nose.  I look over toward the kitchen, and though the view is slightly blocked by a wall, I can still see Squall sliding his fingers down the length of a wide piece of pasta that looks surprisingly fresh.  Huh, when Squall mentioned dinner, I thought it'd be something... not complicated, but it seems lasagna is on the menu for tonight.  I never considered that the brunet actually knows how to cook, but by the smell in the air, he seems to be doing _something_ right.

Despite the breakfast from barely an hour back, my stomach rolls with hunger at the thought of the warm meal, but that is quickly followed by a jaw-cracking yawn.  Well, it's not like dinner is ready yet, so sleep should come first.  Scratching my fingers through wet hair, I stumble toward the guest room and lightly close the door behind me.  After dumping my clothes into a corner, I gaze briefly at the bed and the heating pad already plugged in for me.  I swear, Squall thinks of fucking everything.  I flop onto the mattress and fumble tiredly with the pad before tying it around my knee and switching the heat to 'low'.

Once set up, I drag a large pillow from under the comforter, and though I pull the pillow close, I don't lie down straightaway.  Instead, I twist in odd angles to check every corner of the room, but there doesn't appear to be any unwanted visitors around to ruin my plans for sleep.  While not a rare event for spirits to give me some peace, I'll be more impressed if they leave my dreams alone, too.  Dog used to provide a barrier against interfering ghosts, but my mother's 'magic' on the stuffed toy has faded such that I can barely feel it anymore.  Despite being powerless, it still helps my mental state to keep Dog close.  The stupid thing reminds me of my mother and how she was so much stronger than I know how to be.

Curling around the large pillow, I rest my head at the crook of my arm and close my overly tired eyes.  In the silence of that moment, I can hear Squall doing his thing in the kitchen.  The occasional clangs of metal and other sounds of cooking merge into something like a lullaby, and with my mind free of all other thoughts, I drift off into blessed sleep.

~ > < ~

Good dreams are rare for me.  It's not that I necessarily have bad dreams all of the time, but rather, I don't have many dreams altogether.  Visions of the future, glimpses of the past, and anything else a wandering spirit feels like showing me, yes, but not dreams.  Even when I do dream, there are typically a mess of images and memories of things I should have never seen, and things that I wish I could forget.  As if I could be that lucky.

But I do have one good dream, one I've had on sporadic occasions since I was about sixteen, but not in the last several years.  Everything is dark in the dream, but only because I always keep my eyes closed in fear of scaring away the other person with me--my own special lover.  Firm hands grab the top of my shoulders and massage in a manner such that thumbs also rub strongly at the sides of my neck, a touch that immediately relaxes my sore body.  From there, the hands travel downward in a methodical fashion, deft fingers caressing each line of muscle as if trying to memorize every detail of my body.  Each time, I'm impressed by the scrutiny of my imaginary partner, those hands discovering crevasses I hadn't realized existed, and this time, they linger at my ribs which are more pronounced since the last time I had this dream.

The obvious progression of curious fingers leads to my very interested dick, but they playfully circle around my erection to stroke my inner thighs.  I whine at the apparent game, especially when it has been so long since our last meeting, but I don't expect much.  My desires usually don't matter in this dream, but even as I think that, soft flesh abruptly presses against the tip of my penis--a kiss of apology that leads to so much more.  While I can feel the heat of lips and tongue, they don't have the same moisture or texture of reality.  Even so, I'm not a complicated man; simple pleasures are enough for me.

"... --ifer... _Seifer_..."

My entire body shudders at the voice, it being the first time I've heard a word, even a sound from my dream partner in all of these years.  It's not until after my bodily reaction that I realize the voice isn't the silkily feminine thing I always imagined, but something deeper with a sultry purr that somehow seeps into my very flesh.  God, it's been too long since my last dream and that voice may be my undoing, despite the fact that it identifies my partner as almost certainly male.  It's still a good voice and those hands always did seem a touch too strong when massaging my muscles and stroking my dick.  As long as no one else finds out...

A hard shove startles me to the point of snapping open my eyes and the darkness instantly disperses into something hazy and confusing as I struggle to remember that I'm not in my own bed, but somewhere else.  Someplace safe, though unfamiliar.

"Are you awake yet?"

Blinking the room into focus, I stare up at the source of the voice that I had connected to my dream and I nearly choke at the idea of overlapping Squall with my imaginary lover.  Shit, it's going to take ages before I can listen to Squall's voice and not associate it to my one good dream, and damn it, that's probably the last thing I need right now.

"Something wrong?" Squall asks in his way, his left eyebrow lifted in a curious arch.

"Uh, no, but I... I thought you were going to let me sleep until dinner."

"You've been asleep for eight hours."

"Damn, no shit?"  I try to rub the sleep from my eyes and begin to sit up, but promptly stop when I realize my rather uncomfortable state that must have been plain as day to the observant brunet.

Allowing me an ounce of dignity, Squall turns and leaves the room with the statement, "Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes."  And only the dour brunet can say something so utterly mundane and still manage to imply that I should take care of 'things' within that allotted time.

Left alone, I reach down to remove the heating pad, but discover that it had already been turned off and set aside on the nightstand.  I'm not certain how I feel about Squall checking up on me while I was asleep, but it was probably a smart idea to turn off the heating pad before it could cause more harm than good.  After testing my knee and finding it relatively pain-free, I crawl out of bed and slink my way back to the bathroom.  Glancing at the mirror, I sigh at the reality that a long nap wouldn't be able to wipe away the damage caused by weeks of sleepless nights, but hey, at least I don't feel like shit anymore.  Not yet human, but definitely not shit, either.

Standing in front of the toilet, I do my thing to rid myself of the inconvenient erection.  The act is more of a chore than something pleasurable, especially compared to the seduction of my dream partner, so it's no surprise when my thoughts begin to wander.  It's unfortunate when Squall dominates those thoughts, but not too surprising when the man seems to be doing everything in his power to throw me off my guard.  I wonder if he plays the same games with his boyfriend, assuming he has one.

That line of thought leads down a dangerous path of trying to figure out what role Squall would take in a relationship.  I doubt anyone could dominate him in any setting, especially in bed, but the guy has that masochistic side, too, which reveals itself during his marathon races.  For all I know, the difficult bastard could _like_ taking it in the ass, though I bet he never begs for it.  No, Squall seems the type to get _exactly_ what he wants, as hard as he wants it, and as often--

After a deep grunt of release, I lift my gaze to the mirror and sigh in disgust at the frustration I can see in my eyes.  I can't say it's a new thing to think about a guy when jacking off, but it's nothing I like to dwell on.  I tried the guy thing once when I wasn't sober enough to stop my curiosity, and before that drunken night, I didn't realize all of the things that could go wrong during sex.  Hell, I couldn't bring myself to have sex with a _woman_ for weeks after that.  It was a sad reality.

It doesn't help that my bastard father likes to share memories of his past, as if the sight of his 'exploits' would convince me to continue his warped idea of a family business.  While the images of raped women are hard to witness, I hold greater pity for the so-called robbery victims who were beaten to a pulp by the man's fists, boots, and whatever else he could get his hands on.  The unfortunate truth of those acts was that the prick was attracted to those men, and in his twisted mind, they deserved that punishment for 'infecting' him.

In a weird way, it's a relief that I inherited his occasional homosexual tendencies and not his homicidal rage.

Cleaning up the minor mess, I halfheartedly fix my sleep-messed hair, but give up when I remind myself that I'm having dinner with Squall and not someone who'll care about my appearances.  I'm clean and that should be enough for the neat-freak.  Leaving the bathroom, I walk carefully toward the kitchen and think about offering my help, but that idea flies from my mind when I notice three sets of silverware on the table.  Before I can ask about the extra setting, the doorbell rings with a sharp tone that makes me jump.

"Can you get that?" Squall asks without looking in my direction, his attention focused on something in the oven.  Shit, he really shouldn't bend over like that, not when he caught me just a short while ago with a heavy hard-on.

Deciding that answering the door would be the safest thing to do, I walk to the entrance and open the door to stare at, not someone's face, but a man's chest.  A very broad chest.  Shifting my gaze higher, I take in the sight of the large, older man with a military-style buzz cut and piercing blue eyes.  A dangerous-looking scar mars his face from the edge of his hairline, around the outer rim of his left eye, and down the remaining distance to his chin.  As such, his displeased frown twists the lengthy scar and makes his glare a lot more intimidating than it should be.

"Those are my clothes," he states in a deep grumble.

Stricken dumb by the sight of the monstrous man, I only stare at him and think that Squall was wrong--the ogre isn't happy with me borrowing his clothes, after all.

"You left them here," Squall informs as he walks up behind me, unbothered by the glower sent in his direction.  "If you don't feel like being civil, you can leave."

After a moment of protest, the large man relents with a gruff sigh and steps inside the condo.  "How many times have I told you that a bit of warning would be nice before you introduce me to one of your... 'friends'."  The irritated inflection makes me think that the guy has something wrong with Squall's sexual preference, but when the old brute dares to ruffle dark hair in a fatherly move, I realize that I'm the problem here, not Squall.  Hn, that's surprising.  I never considered the former Ice Princess to be a one-night-stand type of lover.

"It isn't like that, Ward," Squall clarifies while brushing aside the large arm.  "Seifer needs a place to stay and I have a basically unused guest room.  There is nothing more to it."

With surprise brightening his eyes, the brute gives me a quick look over.  "Your last name wouldn't be Almasy, would it?"

Beginning to feel irritated by this situation, I reply sharply, "Why, would you have a problem with that?"

"Well, I'm not certain if I don't, but I have to admit, I never expected to find someone like you here with my godson," he states while removing his long coat.  In a tone of recalling past memories, he mutters, "Rose High School's prized quarterback... Actually, Squall's father and I used to watch your games back in the day.  I even loss fifty bucks to Laguna during your freshman year, but I can't say I remember Squall ever mentioning you."

"We weren't friends," Squall decides to announce, already returning to his duties in the kitchen.

Hanging up his coat, the old brute frowns at the information, but when glancing at me, he hums out with some kind of deeper understanding that he selfishly doesn't share.  Instead, he holds out a hand and says with an air of reserving judgment, "Given your look earlier, I'll bet Squall didn't tell you I was coming around.  The name is Ward Zabac."

Warily, I take the offered hand, but gradually relax when he refrains from using his full strength against me.  Recognizing his attempt to play nice, I decide to follow along.  "Listen, about the clothes, I brought some with me--"

Interrupting from the kitchen, Squall declares, "They were filthy."

"They weren't _that_ bad," I try to argue, but Squall huffs in disgust at my idea of 'clean enough'.  "Anyway, Loire stole all my clothes and gave me your things to wear.  He said you wouldn't mind."

Ward smirks at my vague apology and shakes his head.  "I think you have bigger problems than worrying about my clothes."

Though my expression must show open confusion, the large man steps past me with a slight bump against my shoulder and moves toward the table that had gained three bowls of salad and a small basket of warmed bread.  I think to help Squall in the kitchen, but as if reading my thoughts, the brunet scowls and motions for me to take a seat.  I decide not to argue against the silent order and use the chance to get an answer or two from his 'uncle'.

"What do you mean I have bigger problems?" I ask in a low voice, hoping that Squall is too busy with pots and pans to hear the question.

Pale blue eyes shift my way, and though there is little humor in it, the large man smiles.  "Squall has picked you as his latest investment."

While I frown at the useless information, Squall grumbles from the kitchen, "I wish you would stop calling it that."  So much for having this discussion without the brunet's involvement.

Ward slumps back against his chair and his smile gains a truer curl of lips, even with the ragged cut of his scar.  "You've mentioned that before, but you have to admit, it does a pretty good job of describing the situation."

Squall scowls, but doesn't form a vocal argument.

Though concerned that I may not like the answer, I ask, "What do you exactly mean by an... 'investment'?"

"Basically what it sounds like," Ward says despite the quiet growl from the kitchen.  "My godson has a bad habit of helping people.  He'll put his money and reputation on the line so that others have the chance of success in life.  More than once, he has invested everything in a person and allowed nothing more than a promise for collateral."

"I helped you based on your word," Squall tosses out.

The large man breathes a laugh at the reminder.  "Yeah, and that still doesn't change the fact that you're far too trusting for your own good."

"Wait a minute here," I manage, my chest feeling tight and heated with anger.  "I'm some sort of... _charity case_ that Loire here does for the fucking _fun of it?_ "

Ward eyes me suspiciously for the outburst.  "Well, that's why you're here, isn't it?  Because of what Squall can offer you?"

"I'm here for a _bed_ , and for your information, Loire and I made a deal that I'm going to pay back everything I owe while staying here.  I've been a burden for most of my life and I have no plans to be one to Loire, so you tell me--is there another reason I _should_ be here?"

Surprise softens the man's hard expression.  "A 'burden'...?  Son, don't you know how much--"  The harsh placement of a plate in front of Ward silences the man, even makes him jump, which is rather amusing given his size.

Showing an uninterested front, Squall turns to me and asks, "How do you like your steaks?"

I blink, efficiently confused by the question that has nothing to do with the subject at hand, not to mention a meal I wasn't expecting.

"Medium?  Rare?" Squall prompts further, as if I didn't know how to order a steak.

I glance over at the plate set in front of Ward, and indeed, a grilled steak was there with roasted potatoes and green beans filling the rest of the dish.  "I prefer well-done..."  At my dumbfounded answer, Squall nods and returns to the kitchen as if nothing was odd with the situation.  While I'm still angry with the man, the mystery of dinner manages to win over that base emotion.  "Not to sound ungrateful here, Loire, but I thought you were making a lasagna earlier."

"I was."  Glancing over his shoulder, Squall frowns and asks, "Would you rather that instead?"

I sigh and automatically shake my head, frustrated that Squall's answers tend to leave me more confused than enlightened.

"The lasagna is for me," Ward unexpectedly clarifies, already cutting into his steak and creating a watery pool of blood on his plate, a sight I casually obscure by repositioning the bread basket.  "I own a small diner down the street, and every Thursday for lunch, I serve the best lasagna in town for the people who get there first."

I stare at the scarred man, bewildered by the idea that he owns a diner.  A gym or bar I could believe, but a _diner_... "What's the place called?"

"Ward's Place," he replies with a chuckle at the simplistic name, but I suppose it makes better sense than some flowery thing that would better suit one of the clubs downtown or a mockery of a French cafe.  And now that it's mentioned, I seem to recall a couple of the construction guys going there on occasion.  Something about good burgers and milkshakes, which is the only reason I would remember the diner's name--it's not common to hear a six-foot-something construction worker talking about strawberry milkshakes.

"Actually," Squall interjects, "I wanted to ask you about the diner."

Ward hums questioningly around a mouthful of steak.

"Are you still looking for help?"

Stopping in mid-chew, Ward looks at his godson in confusion, but then shows the expression of a wounded bear.  "I was 'oping fo' a cook," he eventually manages around the piece of meat.

I quickly grasp the situation and add to the old man's complaint, "And I don't cook, Loire.  Didn't I just tell you that I don't want to be a charity case?"

"You need a job and Ward needs more help in the afternoons," he says with a shrug.  "You don't have to work there, but I thought it would be convenient given your difficulty waking up in the mornings."

I stare at the conniving brunet, but I can't figure out an argument against his rationale and supposedly good intentions.  Ward, however, still has a few words left in him.  "Then your friend here has a choice, but I don't, even though he just admitted that he doesn't cook."

"I didn't say that."

Ward scoffs and stabs a roasted potato.  "You don't fool me, boy.  I've been waiting for the day when you'd use your position of silent partner against me, though I didn't think it'd be for the sake of someone like... well, this guy," he finishes lamely.

I consider defending myself, but it's a futile task when I know how I must look to this man.  Hell, I'm wearing his clothes and eating his godson's food.  I'm a bit surprised, maybe a little disappointed, that the ogre hasn't already grabbed me by the back of the neck and tossed me out onto the street.  I would've done the same in his position.

Squall doesn't say anything while finishing up in the kitchen, the clicks of dials sounding before he collects two plates and returns to the table.  For a long moment, it's hard for me to focus on anything except the plate set before me, and without remembering when I picked up my silverware, I cut into the thoroughly cooked steak and enjoy that first taste of good meat.  God, I had better be careful here--Squall could get me to surrender my soul to him if he keeps up this kind of cooking.

Ward scoffs quietly and mutters, "A well-done steak... It's like killing the cow twice."

"I don't care for blood," I say without thought and instantly regret it when Squall eyes me carefully, his knife unmoving above his barely cooked steak.  "Blood on my own plate, Loire.  Eat your meat however you like it."

With an uncertain look, he instead opts for a forkful of green beans and returns to the previous discussion.  "I won't lie to you, Ward.  Seifer needs a job that will be flexible to his needs.  So let's make a compromise: hire Seifer for a month, and if he doesn't increase your afternoon business by two-fold, you can fire him."

My stunned "What the fuck--?" is timely joined by Ward's harsh question of "How is _that_ going to work?"

Casually finishing his last bite, Squall makes us wait for the reason behind his impossible claim, but he sorely disappoints both Ward and me when he simply asks, "Do we have a deal?"

"Hey now," I manage before the older man, "I never said I wanted to work--"

"You want to pay me back, yes?" Squall asks without allowing me to finish my argument.

"Well, yeah, of course--"

"You lost your job this morning.  Do you have another lined up?"

"... No, but--"

"Given your background, how long will it take for you to find someone who is willing to hire you?"

I wince at the low blow, which is surprisingly painful given the truth that I'll be lucky to find another job in the next several months, especially if word has gotten around about how unreliable I can be.  Growling out a sigh, I rake a hand back through my hair and bow my head in surrender.  Damn it, if I had any question about why I avoided this guy back in high school, he just proved my assumption that he would have made my life an incredibly difficult one.

With my submission, Squall turns to his 'uncle' and lifts an eyebrow in silent question.

"Don't bother, son," Ward says with a raised hand.  "I know a lost battle when I see one, so I'll agree to your scheming for now.  However, I think I deserve an explanation about this supposed 'background' that'll prevent your friend from being hired."

"I was fired today," I explain before Squall can do it for me, "and that's probably the fourth... no, the fifth time this year.  It's a shitty track record for someone who really needs to earn some money."

The large man frowns at the information, but doesn't say anything while his pale eyes seem to burrow through me, probably looking for the rotten core that holds all of my secrets.

"I work hard," I continue, unable to keep silent under his scrutiny, "and I'm an honest employee, but sometimes... a lot of times, I get nightmares that keep me from sleeping, so I'm either late for work or I'm asleep on my feet."

"... Do you get them often," he asks slowly, his thoughts obviously running elsewhere.

"Often enough."

"And what kind of 'treatments' do you use for those dreams of yours?"

"What, like melatonin or something?  'Cause that shit doesn't work for me."

"No, son, I'm talking about liquor and drugs, and any combination thereafter."

Startled by the old man's guess, I glance at Squall in hesitation, but it's not like I can look any worse to him.  "No drugs since they fuck me up even more, but I did drink a lot in the past.  I started in college when it was pretty easy to get plastered, but I swear, I dried up about three years ago and haven't touched a bottle since then."

Ward hums lightly at my response.  "Back in the day, I was a police officer along with Squall's father.  I've seen more than a few good men lose themselves in bottles while trying to escape their nightmares, and it never did them any good.  You should be proud that you learned for yourself how alcohol doesn't solve anything."

Though I could easily get away with that lie, I find myself saying instead, "I wish I was that smart, but I stopped drinking because I couldn't afford the shit anymore.  Nothing more noble than that."

After a surprised moment, the old brute leans back in his chair and smiles slowly.  "Well now, I was wondering why Squall was bothering with you, especially when you and those jock friends of yours made his life Hell back in high school, but you're different than I imagined."

"Seifer wasn't like the rest of them," Squall says as if it were true.  Yeah, I never pushed him around like the other assholes, but I didn't protect him either.  I didn't do _anything_ , which has become the pathetic story of my life.

Ward hesitantly nods.  "I can believe that, though I wish you had said something before I had made an ass out of myself."

Squall shrugs while continuing his meal.

After a shake of his head, Ward looks to me.  "I'll give you a shot, son, but I'm afraid there will have to be another condition to hiring you."  At my curious look, he dictates, "If you drink a drop of alcohol, I'm kicking you to the street.  Understood?"

I can't say anything while meeting pale blue eyes.  Normally, I'd assume he was preparing a reason to fire me for whenever he gets sick of me, but I can hear it in his voice that he has other intentions with the condition.  It makes me think of my grandfather and his gruff way of keeping me in line when I was a kid.  Sympathy over my mother's death only went so far with him, which was ultimately for the better.  God knows what I would've grown up into if he treated me with overcompensating kindness like everyone else did back then.

"Seifer?"

Breaking out of old memories, I glance at Squall for his interruption, and then back at Ward, who appears rather worried by my silence.  Damn, it should be sign that something is wrong with me when I basically shutdown the moment someone shows concern for my sorry ass.  Though I'm still wary about dealing with this ogre of a man, I know that I shouldn't pass up the opportunity to earn a few bucks.

With a nod, I agree, "Alright, I think your condition sounds fair enough.  But y'know, I still can't cook."

Ward chuckles at the reminder and promises, "We'll figure something out."

"You'll have time to think it over," Squall unexpectedly adds.  "Seifer isn't starting until Monday."  Before I can make an argument about days wasted without pay, he adds tersely, "You'll scare away customers as you are now.  We need to get you a haircut and buy you new clothes that haven't been torn to shreds by construction equipment.  And then you need sleep.  Plenty of sleep."

My teeth clench at someone else planning my life without my consent, even if I apparently need the help.

"He's right, you know," Ward says smugly, obviously amused at someone else suffering under his godson's care.

"You're not helping," I grumble under my breath.

"Get used to it, son.  No one can help you where you're headed with this one," Ward warns with his head tilted toward Squall.

Scowling at the implication, I argue, "I'll say it again, Loire--I'm not going to be one of your 'investments'.  I just need some help to get through this rough patch."

For his part, Squall looks at me with his blue-gray eyes and reveals absolutely nothing in the stormy depths.  Nothing about this being his plan in the first place, nothing about the future ideas bouncing around in his skull, and certainly nothing about his reasons for doing any of this for me.

With renewed anger toward the situation, I cut harder than necessary into my steak and shove the piece of meat into my mouth, but the taste of well cooked meat once again calms my other emotions in exchange for momentary bliss.  Well shit, this is a dangerous game to submit to Squall simply because of some good food.  Probably more than dangerous... but with my bite into a roasted potato perfectly seasoned with rosemary, I decide that I'm willing to ignore bothersome thoughts for the length of dinner.  Just this once.

~ > < ~

The remains of dinner sitting in the kitchen sink, I try to focus on washing the collection of dishes and not on the fact that Ward had lured Squall outside for a 'talk'.  I can only imagine how the old brute wants to warn Squall about me, maybe convince him to send me to a hotel or somewhere else that's not here.  While it was my original plan to find a cheap hotel before Squall interfered, the idea of leaving here seems a little lonely.  I'll bet my good leg that this place has already gotten to me with its addictive aura of being a true home, and if I wanted to be honest, it has been a nice change of pace to have someone around whoknows my secrets and isn't afraid of what I see.  It has been a long time since I've talked with anyone about my curse.

The front door opens with a quiet click and Squall enters the condo with nothing visible in his expression.  It isn't a surprise, but damn me if it isn't frustrating as hell.

"Have a good talk?"

Squall glances up at the question, but before he says whatever is on his mind, his brow furrows in confusion.  "Why are you doing the dishes?"

"You cooked," I say while putting some plates into the dishwasher.  "Back when I lived with my grandfather, we had the rule that one person cooked and the other cleaned, and since I suck at cooking, I always ended up doing the dishes.  I guess it's a hard habit to break, even after all of these years."

Reaching the kitchen, Squall leans back against the counter and smiles faintly without comment.

"Is there something funny about me doing dishes?"

"No, not really, but I feel like I picked up a stray who is surprisingly housebroken."

I snort at the analogy.  "Let me guess--your 'uncle' tried to convince you that I'm a flea-bitten mutt who should be tossed out on his ass."

His smile disappearing, Squall argues, "Ward knows something like that would be a waste of breath."

Though it's curious that the old brute didn't put up a bigger fight, something about Squall's tone makes me stop what I'm doing and look directly at the dark-haired man.  The shadows to his downcast eyes are rather obvious, especially when that pain-filled darkness is familiar to what I see whenever I dare to stand in front of a mirror.  Damn, and I thought there was nothing in this world that could truly affect this golden boy.

"What did he say?"

My question causes Squall to blink and look at me as if remembering I was still here... or maybe he's just shocked that I care.

"I can tell you're upset, Loire.  Why don't you tell me what's up and get it over with?"

Squall continues to say nothing while his blue-gray eyes stare forward with a dull gaze filled with unspoken thoughts.

At the blank expression, I sigh and return to the dishes, feeling like an idiot for thinking that Squall could actually trust me for anything.  I don't know where I got it into my head that we could talk like old friends, but I'm obviously overstepping my bounds.  Now, if only I didn't feel so irritated by that fact.

"... Do you actually want to know?"

I glance at Squall for the odd question.  "I wouldn't ask if I didn't."

The brunet doesn't say anything directly after my response, but when he does speak, his words are quiet and slow.  "Ward heard from my dad that my mother is in a lucid state.  They think I should visit before she gets worse again."

With a sick feeling to my stomach, I try to apologize, "Shit, I didn't realize--"

"You had no reason to know."

"Still, you could've told me to mind my own business or something."

Squall shrugs lightly, but his hands tighten at his crossed arms and his head bows further down to hide his eyes behind dark brown hair.

"So... are you going to see her?"

"Tomorrow," Squall replies, and then adds in an almost offhanded manner, "I'll be lucky if she hangs on for that long."

Another curse on my tongue, I swallow thickly and stare at the sink of soapy water.  "I'm sorry.  If I had--"

" _Stop it_ ," Squall grinds out angrily.  "You weren't the one who fucked with her mind and tortured her body.  You have _nothing_ to apologize for, and if I hear it one more time from you, I'll toss you out of here without a second thought."

Though I appreciate what he's trying to do, my smile is tight and unnatural when I argue, "You don't know what I saw... what I could've stopped."

He huffs in irritation and demands, "Then come with me tomorrow."

Startled by the offer, I can only stare at Squall for his suggestion that, frankly, scares me shitless.

"If you're that determined to believe you failed my mother, then she's the only one who can forgive you."

"But, she doesn't... I mean, how exactly am I supposed to explain...?"

Steely-blue eyes peer through thick bangs when he says, "Details don't matter.  Just tell her you knew what was happening and that you took a few days to tell anyone.  Whatever you say, she probably won't register half of it, but she'll forgive you.  She knows it wasn't your fault."

Trapped between my fear of guilt and my need for redemption, I can't form a firm refusal that would make Squall back off from his suggestion.  Instead, I think about his words and his controlled tone, and I ask, "Has she really gotten that bad?"

Squall sighs and looks up at the ceiling in thought.  "She's afraid.  It doesn't matter that Roth was killed when the police raided his place and rescued her along with those kids.  She insists that he visits her and controls her dreams.  And the things she says... She's rarely herself anymore."

I close my eyes at that information, and in that fraction of a second, old visions invade my mind like unwanted memories.  Stephen Roth was a surprisingly handsome man, his outer shell not revealing even a hint of the darkness that lied in his heart.  Three young children--two boys and one girl--were without clothes, collared and chained beneath a workbench that had anything but the normal tools one would expect to find there.  And in the middle of that cold place was Raine Loire, bloody cuts covering her breasts, her inner thighs red and burnt from electricity, and her only pleas were for the lives of those kids...

My eyelids reopen and most of the emotions attached to the old vision fade.  Most, never all.  "Maybe she's telling the truth."

Squall frowns, but allows me the chance to explain the comment.

"I could be wrong, but I've met a few nasty ghosts in my time, and with the way that fucker died, there's no reason to assume he went nicely to where he belongs."  Wrapping a hand at the back of my neck, I rub at sore muscles and add somewhat hesitantly, "It probably doesn't help that your mother is the only one who got away."

Stormy eyes shift with a clear reluctance to believe my theory.  "The children were also saved."

"He never intended to kill them.  They were nothing more than additional tools of torture against your mother, and trust me, don't ask how he used them.  Her pain and eventual death were supposed to be his orgasm, and with that satisfaction, he was going to let those kids go."

"... You saw all of that?"

I avert my gaze, uncomfortable with the weight just how much I know about those few days.  "I also saw her die... Well, how she was supposed to die.  An hour after I saw that, I convinced you to met with me."  A weird choking laugh escapes me and I do my best to not think about my 'memories' of the things that didn't happen that night.  "Y'know, to this day, I haven't a fucking clue how you managed to convince the police to look up Roth's information, but you did it and saved her from something terrible."

Squall's whispered words of sympathy don't quite reach my ears, but caressing fingertips that wrap around my upper arm are much harder to miss.  Stunned, I turn just in time to catch the openly troubled expression from Squall before he seems to remember himself and jerks away his hand as if burnt.  Even so, I can still feel the lingering touch of coldness at my skin, and not for the first time, I wonder what is happening in that head of his.

Watching the way Squall tightly wraps his arms across his chest, I say half-jokingly, "It's alright to touch me, Sherlock.  I just wasn't expecting it."

He studies me with a sidelong glance and eventually nods.  "Good to know."

Before I can determine if he's mocking me or something else altogether, Squall pushes up from the counter and steps toward the other end of the condo.  While his walking off should bother me, I just shake my head and return to the few remaining dishes.  There really wasn't much to do in the first place, Squall unsurprisingly being the type to clean up while cooking.  I finish loading the dishwasher, and with nothing else to do, I wander into the living room.  The leather couch looks rather inviting in a 'good for long naps' sort of way, but I know that if I get anymore sleep right now, I'll be wide awake at 3am and that's a habit I really don't want to get into.

Looking for something to entertain me until a proper bedtime, I set eyes on a tall bookcase that holds a variety of books and I note a few nonfiction books about FBI profiling, infamous killers, and the like.  But the most obvious part of the bookcase is a single shelf devoted to a series of hardback books by a single author--L Loire.  With a smile on my lips, I pull out the newest looking book and check out the back cover to see a man I haven't met personally.  After taking in the sight of the casual pose and an honest grin, I debate whether I can detect any real likeness between Squall and his father.

"Have you read it?"

I scoff at the question and turn around with an appropriately sarcastic answer prepared, but that thought falls away when I see Squall dressed in white sweats and wearing a ski cap.  "Decided to dress in something comfortable there, Loire?"

"I left my motorcycle at the coffee shop, and since I didn't get my run in earlier, I thought I'd go get it."

While I first think Squall is jerking my chain, I quickly change my mind when he slips on a pair of running shoes.  "You're going _now?_   Do the words 'night', 'winter', and 'frozen testicles' mean nothing to you?"

Squall shrugs, and once he finishes tying his shoes, he straightens with a long stretch.  "You can borrow any of those books, though if you want something by my dad, I suggest one of the older ones."

My fleeting desire to convince Squall that he's an idiot fades once it's apparent that he's not going to listen, and frankly, I'm the last person who should give advice about good life habits.  Instead, I glance at the book in my hand and at the smiling photo of Laguna Loire.  "Is there something wrong with this one?"

"He didn't write it."

The fact startles me more than it probably should.  "But it's his name on the cover."

"Technically, it's L Loire on the cover.  My sister, Ellone, has been his ghostwriter for the past few books.  While my dad still comes up with some good ideas, he hasn't had the desire to write ever since..."  He waves a hand to suggest the obvious.  "Elle does a decent job of mimicking his style, but it isn't perfect.  I think it's because the ideas aren't hers."

I hum lightly, though in truth, I don't have a chance of understanding what it means to have a family and watch them struggle with a reality like theirs.  How Squall's sister could continue writing when his father had given up should say something about their differing strength of mind... or maybe it says something more about the differing type of love for the fallen mother.

Not noticing when he had moved, I flinch when Squall is suddenly right next to me.  He selects a book without hesitation, the title 'Whispers of my Mind' displayed in silver blue letters.  "You should like this one."

"And what makes you think that?"

"It's about a man trying to escape a demon, which you seem to have in common."

I huff at the unfortunate truth and take the offered book.  "What is it, a horror story or something?"

"More of a thriller.  My dad likes action and adventure, not death."

"Good.  I see enough disturbing things without needing to read fictional stories about it."

A flash of something crosses Squall's expression, much like the troubled look he showed earlier when touching my arm, but he turns his back to me before he reveals anything more.  "I'm going the long way, so I won't be back for a couple hours.  Don't push yourself into staying up."

I chuckle at the motherly lecture.  "Cute, Loire, but I think I can handle staying up until an adult's bedtime."

"Whatever," he mutters before slipping outside.  I nearly laugh when he locks the door, as if he's really leaving a child home alone.

After setting aside the book I had first selected, I take the novel Squall gave me and decide to dare the leather couch that still looks a touch too comfortable, but hopefully the book will keep me upright and awake.  Settling in a corner, I glance over the cover and notice that it has the same picture of Squall's father, even though this book was released over a decade ago.  While he was rather young looking for a father of a difficult teen, I can't believe Laguna has aged well in the last several years.  The strain of what this family has gone through doesn't exactly lead to a youthful glow.

I open the book and casually flip through the first pages, only slightly pausing at the dedication to his 'patient and supportive wife'.  The first chapter isn't far behind that, and under the simple heading of 'Chapter 1', the story begins:

_"For over a year, I thought an angel was speaking to me.  No one told me that devils could sing just as well."_

With a shadow of a smile, I remember the first time when I was faced with that exact same reality.  Back then, I had my mother to teach me about the powers we shared, even though she had prayed throughout her pregnancy that I wouldn't inherit those abilities.  Despite her warnings, I nearly died when a darker spirit tricked me into stepping out onto thin ice of a lake.  He said a puppy was in danger and I thought I saw holy wings at the man's back.  I was barely seven when I stopped believing in angels.

Setting aside those memories, I burrow deeper into the corner of the couch and do something I haven't done in years--I relax and read a good book that lets me forget the present.

~ > < ~

_... and choking on smoke and tears, I whimper and cry despite the mocking comments that no one cares about my complaints.  A large hand becomes tangled in my hair, dark and long strands that also fall over my face, and I'm led to a backroom colored by a single yellowed bulb.  Someone shoves me from behind, the action causing pulled hair, ruined pantyhose, and scraped knees as I fall to the ground.  Voices demand for me to turn over, and when I'm not fast enough, a bruising grip wraps around my arm and jerks me such that my shoulder and head slam against the wall_

_I don't see the knife until after it has cut through my blouse and struggles briefly against the material of my bra.  I scream and they laugh at my 'feisty' nature.  At one point, I cry out for 'Daddy' and one of them encourages me that 'Daddy is right here, darling'.  Despite the smoke, I can smell the alcohol on his breath and see the tattoos on his skin.  A needle appears, the liquid inside making my eyes go wide, but I can't move my arm when a hand clamps down on my wrist.  It burns going in and I scream again until a hand pushes against my mouth and nose, making it hard to breathe._

_It doesn't take long, it feeling like seconds before my mind begins to shut down and the world becomes little more than a slowly moving haze.  Their smirking faces are in front of me and I know my body is no longer my own, but there's nothing I can do.  I wish that I had listened to 'Daddy' when he said Reno wasn't good enough for me and that he cared more about sex than anything else.  But I never thought he'd leave me, not in a place like this.  This shouldn't have happened._

_Please, this can't be happening._

_Faces and bodies dance in front of me and I know what they are doing, but my mouth won't move like I want it to.  My thoughts drift further and further, and the song 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow' oddly comes to mind... Right, Dorothy and those orange poppies...  And like Dorothy, I decide that I just want to sleep until everything is nothing more than a bad dream, even if that takes forever..._

_A flash of light blinds my eyes and I see the two men yelling and cursing about bad drugs and the police.  It's a numbing sight and I know exactly what had happened in the span of minutes.  A manicured hand covers my wrist and I turn to see the same raven-haired beauty who was lying dead in the corner of some shitty apartment.  She doesn't speak, but her dark brown eyes demand to know what she had done to deserve any of this._

_I don't bother telling her that, if she can't speak here, she's not dead yet._

_An older woman steps behind her and braces wrinkled hands at narrow shoulders.  "Please, protect my dear heart.  I know you have saved others, and I know you can save her tonight.  Please, there isn't time."_

_I shake my head, wanting to scream that I deserve to be saved, too.  I deserve a life filled with peace and free of death, but no one cares about that.  They demand for me to do the 'right thing' and to sacrifice myself for the sakes of others... and I'm not that strong.  My mother was, but I'm not her... and even she broke in the end..._

_She broke and **left** me..._

_... damn it..._

~ > < ~

I jerk awake like many times before with short breaths and sweat-soaked skin, but instead of feeling terrified and alone, I instantly sense the person next to me.  Glancing to the side, I find Squall still dressed in his jogging outfit and kneeling on the ground while carefully studying me with those all-seeing eyes of his.  Without saying a word, Squall produces a soft hand towel and drapes it over my lap.  Nearby, a glass of ice water sits on the coffee table and Squall nudges it closer to show it was there, but he allows me to decide when I'm ready to attempt something that could potentially drown me at this moment.  I take the towel in shaky hands and press it against my face to inhale the clean scent that does little to drive away the phantom smells of stale cigarette smoke.

"Are you okay?"

I more cough than laugh at the well-meaning question.

"You were... pale," Squall says in a manner that suggests he's understating things.  "Did you see something?"

"I see things all of the time, Loire.  It doesn't mean I can do anything about it."

The brunet scowls at my tone, judgment clear in those pale blue-gray eyes, but he says nothing in response.  No, he's the type to want people to reach the right decision by their own power.

"I can't _do_ anything," I insist as I look away, but I still feel those eyes on me.  "There was nothing useful, just me watching a woman be raped and overdosed with God knows what.  I don't know how to stop it, and even if I did, it's never that easy."

"... Do you know her name?"

I bite my lip, not wanting to admit a damned thing.  And damnit, I know what game Squall is playing, that if she has a name, she's more than a dream I can try to forget.  She's human, and for now, alive.

"Seifer, do you know her name?"

"... _Fine_ , it's Rinoa, or something.  But that doesn't--"

Without listening to my excuse, Squall stands up and steps to a desk where he pulls out a notepad and pen from the center drawer.  Several pages of writing are flipped over before he finds a blank page, and after taking a seat at the end of the couch, he encourages, "Tell me everything you can remember."

I eye the notepad in his hand, the situation making me feel like a patient sitting with a psychiatrist.  "I didn't really see their faces.  She was too terrified for that."

"You'd be surprised what could help," he comments while jotting a note.

"But it happens at some point tonight," I say in a final attempt to dissuade the hardheaded brunet.  "We might not have enough time."

"Then you had better start talking."

I sigh at the reality that Squall won't let me be the coward I've always been, and truthfully, I don't know how to feel about it.  I should be angry at him for forcing the point, but instead, a vague sense of relief lingers behind the fear of reliving that damn vision.  "There's not much, Loire.  She's grabbed by two guys and thrown into a dingy apartment.  They use some drug on her to quiet her up, but something goes wrong and she dies."

Squall writes while prodding, "What about outside?"

I want to say that I don't know and be done with it, but I instead close my eyes and try to step backward through the dream.  "There were stairs, metal stairs that were hard on her high heels.  And God, it smelled terrible, like rotting meat and old feet."

His pen stilling, Squall asks purposefully, "Can you see the graffiti?"

"It's not exactly like watching a motion picture, Loire.  And in case you forgot, it's night when this happens."  When Squall doesn't react to my frustration, I growl under my breath and try to think about the walls and not the woman's terror bleeding through to me.  "There's plenty of graffiti.  Letters, weird symbols, bad spelling, take your pick... Huh, but I think there's also a decent picture of a woman in gold..."

"Lady Luck," Squall abruptly announces and the couch shifts as he gets up.

I open my eyes in time to watch him flip his notebook closed.  "Give me a break, Sherlock.  There's no way you can know--"

"Only a few places in town smell like the backside of an Irish pub, and Lady Luck is one of the shadiest places in Garden," Squall explains as he walks to the front door and puts on his leather jacket.  He then grabs my coat and waves it in my direction.  "Are you coming?"

Though I shake my head, I find myself standing up and following Squall's lead.  "It's never this easy.  Not for me."

"Maybe you make it too hard."

I want to take exception to the comment, but the moment I take my coat, Squall is outside and tossing keys at me with instructions to lock the door.  Surrendering to Squall's pace, I jerk on my coat and lock the door before running after the shorter man who was already down the stairs and striding to a motorcycle parked nearby.  By the time I reach him, Squall has slipped on a black helmet and produced a second dark red helmet for my use.

Fiddling with the helmet, I admit, "Y'know, I've never done the motorcycle thing."

"Hold on tight and move when I move," is his suggestion while easily straddling the bike and bringing it to life.

With none of Squall's same grace, I maneuver my way onto the back end and awkwardly wrap an arm around Squall's waist.  He grumbles something under his helmet and grabs my other arm such that I end up hugging the man who fits just a touch too comfortably against my larger body.  However, once we leave the parking lot and Squall accelerates into the winter night, I'm grateful for his foresight at getting me to hold on with both arms.  God knows what accident I would've caused by flailing around for a better hold.

It's not an overly comfortable trip with icy air whipping around us and Squall's body shifting against mine, but even that doesn't distract me from the memories of rape and death which should come tonight.  For whatever reason, I can't bring myself to hope that Squall is right about the location.  Maybe I've been disappointed too many times and it has become easier to believe that, sometimes, a person is simply a victim of Fate, a force that is greater than my pathetic existence.  Not everyone can be saved--it's a reality I've learned to live with.

Squall, however, hasn't learned that lesson and he speeds along the highway to the southern end of Garden, an area that isn't as bad as the metropolitan cities out there, but no one would call it a friendly place.  Squall takes an exit that eventually leads to 15th Street and I subconsciously hold the brunet a little tighter with the thought that I'm going to be royally pissed if I end up shot and dead while trying to help out an idiot girl who was strolling around in the worst part of town.

Eventually Squall eases on the gas and pulls up in front of large brick building with a bar front on the first floor and some kind of apartments on the second.  The sign declaring 'Lady Luck' is a simple wooden thing under a lamp, but the place has a surprisingly clean look.  I can't quite determine why until I realize that the bar isn't necessarily in good condition, but the area around it is in such disarray that the comparison confuses the eye.  Graffiti covers the walls of the nearby buildings, a mix of store fronts and apartments, but the walls of the bar are basically white except for the single, familiar picture of a gorgeous redhead barely covered by a golden dress.  A chill runs down the back of my neck as I consider two possibilities for that happenstance--either the owner is very good at cleaning graffiti, or everyone knows that this isn't a place to mess with.

"Are you going to let go?" Squall asks, his voice more amused than irritated by my strangle hold around his waist.

"Depends.  Are you really thinking about _staying_ here?"

"Is this the wrong place?"

I sigh at the question, and as my answer, I fumble my way off of the motorcycle and remove my helmet.  Squall slips off his bike with casual experience and hangs his helmet at a handlebar, looking everything like a man unconcerned with his surroundings.  Eventually he glances back at me with the clear question of 'what's next?'

"Don't look at me, Sherlock.  You're the one who decided..."  My breath comes short when I see a black sports car, the type only used by middle-aged men and twenty-something rich boys, pull up from the other direction across the street.  A young, dark-haired woman dressed in a short fur coat and a silky white dress jumps out of the car and yells something at the driver.  The heated exchange lasts barely a minute before the driver slams the passenger door close and peals out into the night, leaving the foot-stomping woman behind.

Squall hums with interest and asks, "Does it always happen that quickly?"

"Never," I state in disbelief.  "It just... it never happens.  Period."

While we watch on, the woman searches her petite handbag and become frantic when she can't find something inside, probably her cell phone.  She turns in a circle as if to get her bearings straight, and when she realizes what street she's on, she pulls her fur coat close around her body and walks warily across the street toward the one business with its lights on--Lady Luck.

Squall pats the back of his hand against my chest, alerting me to the entrance of the bar where two men had just stepped outside.  Nothing was overly alarming about their appearance, aside from the closely cropped hair, the visible tattoos on their necks and hands, and one of them carrying a large knife strapped to his belt.  Right, nothing alarming at all, and that must be why that idiot woman keeps walking straight towards them... in her little fur coat, high-heeled shoes and sheer dress.  Goddamn it, why do fashion and whores have so much in common these days?

The two men smile as I suppose most men do when finding a nice ride for the night and they step forward to find out her asking price.  Not wanting a fight and with no other plan prepared, I do the next best thing--I play stupid.

"Hey, Rinoa darling!" I call out while jogging toward the oblivious woman, hoping to get between her and the two men.  "Were you waiting long?"

Going still, the woman looks at me with confusion plain on her face, but the two men thankfully miss it as they glare at me for interfering with their plans for the night.

"I don't know why you chose _this_ as a meeting place," I say with purposeful inflection, but she's completely clueless about her situation.  Once I make the last several feet to her side, I manage to get a kiss to her cheek and whisper urgently, "Play along.  Those aren't nice men."

Understanding finally brightens her doe-eyed gaze and she grabs my arm before hiding slightly behind me.

"We saw her first," one of the men claims gruffly, to which the other supports with a drawled, "Yeah, that's right."

I glance over the two men, somewhat disappointed that they hadn't wandered off with my suggestion that the woman was already claimed.  So much for my luck lasting a few hours longer to keep me out of trouble and alive.  The larger of the two men fiddles with the handle of his knife and I debate my present ability to hold my own in a street fight.  Back in the day, I wouldn't have even questioned it, but I've learned a lot about mortality since then.

Before anyone makes a move, the knife-welding man yelps and abruptly drops to his knees, at which point a heavy boot kicks him in the head.  The skittering of the knife on asphalt makes me shiver at the idea that I didn't even realize it had been freed from its hilt.  The second man isn't too fast on his feet and dumbly looks around for his friend's attacker instead of taking a more defensive stance.  He never sees the gloved fist coming before it slams hard against his throat, which causes the man to choke and wheeze until he's knocked off his feet with a sweeping kick.

Everything happening in the matter of seconds, Squall stands with a type of coldness that some would call calm and controlled, but I see the killing desire for what it is.

Trying to ease the situation, especially with Rinoa behind me and whimpering in fear, I force a laugh and say, "Wasn't that a bit overkill, Loire?"

"No," and with the succinct reply, he shifts his stance to place a booted foot over callused fingers that were vaguely reaching toward the dropped knife.

Before I can think of something else to say, a loud bang against the bar entrance grabs our attention.  A rather young-looking man with longish copper-red hair storms outside along with two burly looking guys in tow, at least one of them carrying a gun.  Shit, maybe I jinxed myself by hoping that I wouldn't be shot tonight.

"What the _fuck_ is going on 'ere?" the red-haired man demands, his accent not thick enough to label him Irish born, but the influence is still there.

At the threat-filled tone, Rinoa tightens her hold on my arm into a death grip, and if I wanted to be honest, I wish that I had the luxury to react in much the same way.  I would give anything to turn tail and run away.  Instead, I try to draw strength from the sight of Squall who stands without fear of the raging Irishman.  His eyes cool blue-gray, Squall turns and faces the approaching men, but says nothing in excuse of the two groaning bodies at his feet.

Against my expectations, the Irishman slows once getting a good look at Squall and, unbelievably, smiles with a degree of friendliness.  "Well, fuck me, what're you doing 'ere, Leon?"

"Not looking for you," Squall replies dryly, apparently accepting the name 'Leon' as his own.

The red-haired man laughs and steps close to shake hands with the slender brunet.  "Lord above, it's been, what, six months since we've seen that girly face of yours.  How's it been?"

Squall shrugs, and then nudges his foot against one of the men on the ground.  "I hope these aren't yours, Donovan.  I thought your group watched out for the women around here."

The Irishman's irritated scowl returns at the information and his hazel eyes shift with cold purpose.  The gaze reminds me that I'm sorely out of my element here, even though Rinoa continues to latch onto me like I'm the answer to her salvation.  Squall, on the other hand, fits in a touch too well as he stands boldly in front of the Irishman.  After hazel eyes take in the sights of the cowering woman and the large knife on the ground, the red-haired leader nods to his henchmen, and without a spoken command, they gather the hurting men from the street and drag them toward the bar.

The Irishman then steps forward with the grace of a tomcat and smiles seductively at the dark-haired woman behind me.  "I apologize for what you endured.  I taught my men to respect beautiful women, but it seems they have short memories."

Perhaps mesmerized by the light accent and smooth words, Rinoa cautiously steps out from behind me.  "I shouldn't be here.  I just want to go home."

"Of course," the Irishman agrees, and with a skilled touch, he takes her hand and kisses the back of her fingers without Rinoa drawing away.  "Allow me to arrange a ride home for you."

Rinoa accepts the offer with a jerky nod, the sight of which bringing an honest smile to the man's thin lips, as if he was satisfied at the chance to right a wrong.

After a cursory glance at me, the Irishman turns and asks Squall, "And what about you, Leon?  Will you stay for a drink and toast to saving your damsel?"

"Any reason to drink, eh, Donovan?"  At the red-haired man's replying laugh, Squall smirks lightly and says, "Not tonight.  We noticed her standing alone and decided to help, but we should be on our way."

"I'm hurt, but I understand business," the Irishman states suggestively.  "Next time, drinks are on me.  And Leon, if you need help gettin' yourself a bodyguard, let me find you someone better than this one," he says with a thumb jerked in my direction.  Sniggering at his own joke, the red-haired man sanders back to his bar and immediately barks out an order to get his personal car ready.

Before I can complain at appearing like a failure of a bodyguard, Rinoa leans heavily against me, and with a sudden sob, she buries her face into my jacket.  Well, shit, I've never been good with crying women and this certainly isn't a situation of choice.  I awkwardly wrap my arm around her shaking shoulders and dutifully listen while she curses her boyfriend between gasping sobs.  It seems that they had fought over their plans for the night, Rinoa wanting to do something quiet after losing her aunt the previous week, but her boyfriend thought they had other arrangements.  After his knuckleheaded comment, 'she wasn't your _mother_ or someone _important_ ,' Rinoa had demanded for him to pull over without realizing the part of town they were in.

Once she finishes her story and hysterical crying, I gently push her back a pace.  "You're fine.  Things could have gotten ugly, but obviously someone is watching over you.  Maybe your aunt," I say with a slight smile, amused how the truth can sound so trite.

She nods and wipes mascara darkened tears from her eyes.  "Thank you for stopping when you did.  How can I repay you?"

"Don't thank me.  I just stood here and looked pretty while that guy did everything," I argue and point in Squall's direction.

Rinoa frowns and glances at Squall for a cursory moment before returning her focus on me.  "You stood in the way when they were going to grab me.  And now that I think about it, you knew my name.  Have we met before?"

Thrown off by the question, I hesitate long enough for Squall to supply an answer--"We heard some of your fight.  You were both yelling."

Dark-eyes on me, Rinoa pouts at the answer.  "But you seem familiar."

"I've been around town," I supply, relieved when a black SUV pulls out from an alleyway next to the bar, looking shiny, new and completely out of place for this part of the city.  "Hey, I think that's your ride."

The slim woman presses forward against my body.  "Won't you come with me?  Make certain I get home safe?"

I glance at Squall, and when he shrugs in disinterest, I figure the Irishman is trustworthy enough.  "You'll be fine.  Go home and be with your family."

Though visibly disappointed, Rinoa nods and steps toward the SUV, one of the previous henchmen holding open the door.  Just before getting in, she turns and states, "I don't know your name."

I smile in reply.  "Stay safe, Rinoa."

At the implied rejection, she irritably pulls her fur coat tighter around her body and slips into the SUV.  After closing the door, the henchman nods in Squall's direction, clear respect in his stance before he climbs into the driver seat.  The vehicle drives off with barely a sound and soon disappears into the night.

"You could have left with her," Squall comments, his voice unreadable.

"Right, because what I need is some girl who thinks I'm her knight in shining armor.  Though kudos to her for recognizing that you're gay and a hopeless conquest... However, a girl who bounces back that quickly is a little frightening."

Squall breathes a laugh, and with a relaxed step, he moves back to his parked motorcycle.  I hurry to keep pace, several questions flying through my head about his fake name, his association with the Irishman, and everything else that had happened tonight, but I occasionally know when to hold my tongue, at least when the wrong words could potentially get someone killed.  Reaching the bike first, Squall tosses the dark red helmet at me, a heavy object that I should have easily caught, but my eye is abruptly caught by a familiar uniform.

The helmet hits my chest and bounces to the ground when I can't look away from the enraged energy of my bastard father.

"You _idiot_ ," the ghost snarls.  "They _had_ her.  She was goin' be taught what a whore does, but ya _fucked_ it _up_.  You and that faggot fuck ruined _everythin_ _'_."

Squall says nothing while he steps close in a supportive manner, as if he knew there was someone around to fight.  Meanwhile, I can only glare at the untouchable spirit and helplessly ball my hands into tight fists.

" _Him_ ," the bastard growls much like a crazed animal.  "He's diseased and got ya sick in the head.  They lick shit, ya know.  They stick their dicks in asses so they can taste that cock-flavored _shit_ and get dumb fucks like you infected.  And look at ya, _ruinin_ _'_ what that _girl **deserved**_."  With his screamed accusation, the former soldier launches at Squall with the clear intent to attack and strangle the unaware brunet.

Reacting as best I can, I grab Squall's arm just as bony fingers wrap around his throat and I jerk the smaller man behind me.  "Don't you _dare_  touch him."

"Don't threaten me, _son_.  Yer _my_ blood and _my **legacy**_ to control.  When I say I want that diseased faggot dead, I'll have _you_ make him **_dead_**."

"Never..." I ground out, both terrified and enraged at thought of this bastard ever controlling me.  And that he would have me hurt Squall, the only one who gives a shit about me anymore... "I'll protect him from you."

The ghost laughs with the freedom of madmen.  "Protect _him?_ You can't protect _yerself_ _,_ ya dumb fuck!"

For the first time in years, I feel my body tremble from overwhelming anger, but the bastard is right--there's nothing I can do to him, no matter how much I would love to.

Then, in the midst of my fury, I feel a careful hand rest between my shoulder blades, weighted with wordless support.  Calmness radiates from that simple touch and I feel a measure of control that I rarely experience in front of my bastard father.  After a shaky breath, I meet the spirit's soulless eyes and laugh without a touch of humor to the sound.

"I don't belong to you.  I never belonged to you."

Rage returns to the ghost's face, but instead of directing it at me, he glares at Squall with the open desire to commit bloody murder.

My mind goes quiet in the moment before I take a step forward and throw a hard punch at the ghost's lean face.  The prick smiles broadly as my fist nears, but just when my punch should have connected and instead slides through the body trapped in another plane, he does something I've never seen the bastard do--he flinches.  Meanwhile, I'm thrown off balance by my punch hitting nothing, which causes me to stumble to the ground and land hard on my knees, but it's worth it for the stunned look on the former soldier's face.  Further surprising me, the asswipe says nothing at my failure of an attack and impossibly steps backward in retreat until disappearing into the night.

"He... ran away," I say dumbly.

Squall moves close behind me and asks, "Was that the ghost who bothers you?"

I almost agree and continue the game of secrets, but something about tonight has changed things between Squall and me.  I can trust him, and I don't mean with just my pathetic life.  I've been on shaky ground with my sanity for years, and knowing what my mother couldn't quite endure, I need all the help I can get.  "He was my father."

With a tilt of his head, Squall considers the admission.  "I thought you didn't know your father."

"I knew... _always_ knew.  My mother told me so that I could protect myself if he ever showed his face.  See, he raped her and got her pregnant, and yet she decided to have me anyway."  I look up at Squall and stress to him, "No one else knows this... well, no one else alive.  I'd appreciate it if you didn't spread the word."

His eyes bright with storm-like intensity, Squall asks in a hoarse voice, "Why tell me?"

"Because he hates you," I say while pushing myself off the ground.  My knee twinges at the abuse it has received today, but it's steady enough for me to stand in front of Squall and brush my fingers against his throat.  "He attacked you... Did you feel anything?"

"... No."

I breathe a laugh, feeling a bit like an overdramatic idiot.  "Of course not.  He's a ghost, not some demon from the movies.  But hey, it can't hurt to be careful, right?"

Squall stares at me for a moment longer before blinking and pulling away from my hand.  "We should go.  It's not safe here."

I have no reason to argue his point, and after picking up the helmet I had failed to catch, I follow Squall to his motorcycle.  The smaller man tenses when I wrap my arms around him, a confusing reaction after our rushed ride here.  Thinking I had pushed Squall too far by revealing my secrets, I start to pull back my arms, but he grabs a wrist to insist on the secure position.  With a roar of the engine, Squall guides the motorcycle into a U-turn and sends us back to the highway that leads us to the more civilized part of the city.

The ride back to his condo is a surprisingly soothing one and my mind grows fuzzy with the need for more sleep.  Once we reach the building, Squall is forced to help me much like he had earlier today.  Luckily, my knee doesn't feel quite as bad as it had earlier, but I'm too exhausted to deal with limping up a couple flights of stairs.  I have a feeling that I did something I wasn't suppose to do when I attacked my bastard father, but God help me if I actually knew what that was.  It made him runaway for the meantime, but he's smart enough to eventually figure out that it was a fluke on my part.

Squall helps me inside the condo, and once past the threshold, I pull away to hobble toward the guest room under my own power.  I probably should wash up and all of that before going to sleep, but the allure of the bed is too strong to resist.  I collapse on the mattress much like I had earlier today, and with awkward maneuvering, I manage to shed my shirt, shoes, and pants without having to move off the bed.  Stripped to my boxers, I hurry to pull down the comforter and crawl under the heavy weight to regain some warmth.  Though the place is well heated unlike my former apartment, Squall keeps the temperature cooler than most warm-blooded human beings.

It's just when I manage to curl up and consider sleep that a light knock sounds.  The door opens at my bleary permission to enter and Squall steps inside, his steel-blue gaze softening with amusement at my huddled position under the covers.  I think to complain about my long day and the cooler temperature, but when I notice the object in Squall's hand, I sit up with interest.

"I thought you might need this tonight," Squall says as he walks to the bedside and hands Dog to me.  "There are some damp areas, though."

I shake my head and stroke my fingers over the dragon's once-shiny horns.  "This is the cleanest he's been since the day my mother won him for me.  Thanks."

He nods and begins to walk away as if he hadn't done me a great favor.

"Hey, Loire," I say in time to stop him at the door.  "Thank you for today.  You're a fucking ass, but this is the first time in a long time that I've acted and it actually meant something.  It's... nice."

Squall shows a vague smile at the admission.  "Sleep in as long as you want.  My mother tends to do better in the afternoons and we can go then."

Reminded of that plan, I feel the same terror as I did earlier today.  "Are you sure?  I mean, I don't want to interfere--"

"See you tomorrow, Seifer," and with that, Squall closes the door behind him.

Groaning at Squall's determined spirit, I lie back down on the mattress and childishly pull Dog close to my pillow.  I finger the dragon's tail and realize that something is odd about the stuffed animal, something that has nothing to do with his recently cleaned state.  My eyes drift close while I consider what is different about my toy guardian, an answer that eludes me until the final moments before sleep--his fading power feels stronger than it should be.  Not by much, but enough to be noticeable, and it has to be Squall's fault.  Well, shit, the brunet must care for me quite a bit for Dog to be able to absorb the power of that emotion... emotion that must resemble my mother's love in some fashion.

But like most thoughts that occur on the edge of sleep, I ultimately forget that drowsy realization.  And without the normal worries that keep me awake, I slip into dreamless slumber under the watchful gaze of my faithful protector.


	3. Chapter 3

[Squall]

Sunlight warm on my face, I glance up at the sky to view upon its bright blue color and the lack of clouds, a beautiful sight that helps to remove some of the chill from the winter air.  But even as I appreciate that open sky, I can't shake a foreboding sensation that would be better matched by something darker, like the cover of gray clouds.  This happens every time I make plans to visit my mother, and I'm ashamed that I can't feel a measure of happiness at seeing the woman who has always understood me and accepted me for everything that I am.  It should be easier than this, but it isn't, and it never will be.

"Is this really necessary?"

At the grumbling tone, I look to the blond walking by my side and huddled within his filthy jacket.  I almost want to smile at this sulking side of the man, the first time I've seen it, but that would mean pretending this is something it's not.  "We've already discussed the issue.  You need new clothes."

With a frown bordering on a pout, Seifer says, "This is starting to sound a lot like charity, Loire.  Do you really think I'm that pathetic?"

I sigh at the constant argument from the proud man.  "You shouldn't think of it that way."

"You're giving me stuff for free - how else I should classify it?"

Stopping at an intersection, I wait for the crossing signal to change before I decide to answer.  "While I hate how it sounds, Ward isn't entirely wrong with calling this an 'investment'.  You may be at a low point right now, but I know your worth.  With a little money and some support, I can help you reach that potential."

"And how is that not charity?"

"Charity is giving money to a person and calling it done."  I look directly at Seifer and inform him, "Meanwhile, as my 'investment', I'm going to ride your ass to make certain you do this right, and by the time I'm done with you, you'll be wishing that I had charity in mind."

Green eyes briefly widen in surprise, but then narrow with an interested gleam.  "All right, Sherlock, then in your mind, what exactly do you want me to 'do right' in this scheme of yours?"

"Get your life back together, and after that..." I shrug and tell him, "It's up to you."

Nothing else is said for the length of a block, and with another couple of streets to the local mall, I don't particularly mind the silence.  Since my motorcycle doesn't work well with heavy bags of clothes, I decided that a short walk and fresh air couldn't hurt given our other plans for later in the afternoon.  Seifer readily agreed to the idea, claiming that his knee needed a good stretch and that he felt more comfortable walking than wasting money on a taxi.  Even so, I don't bother hiding the fact that I'm keeping an eye on him and his vague limp, waiting for the moment when a change of plans will be necessary.

"These 'investments'..." Seifer begins while still deep in thought.  "How many have there been?"

"... Five."

"Care to be more specific there, Loire?"

"Not particularly.  It's not my business to speak about freely, and I want to respect their privacy."

With a frustrated sigh, Seifer scratches his fingers back through golden hair.  "I guess I can appreciate that, but look at this from my end - it'd be nice to know what I'm getting myself into if I stupidly decide that you should have your way."

After a moment to consider his point, I concede, "I suppose you already know about Ward, but what I tell you stays between us."

"Right, because y'know I just _love_ running off to share secrets with my _non-existent_ friends."

I glare at the blond for his sarcasm, but decide that it's as close to a pledge as I will get with him.  Turning my focus to the street ahead of us, I explain to Seifer, "Ever since the incident with my mother, Ward had a difficult time continuing as a detective.  I don't think anyone else saw the difference in him, but I did and I knew it wasn't what my mother would have wanted for him.  Since I was a kid, Ward had plans to own a diner once he retired, so I purchased a building in a good location, convinced Ward to quit the force, and paid for the renovations he wanted."  With a slight shrug, I conclude, "Ward was my first 'investment' and he has seemed happier for it."

Seifer doesn't say anything right away, but eventually asks, "The guy has owned that place for a while now, hasn't he?"

Guessing the real question behind his words, I tell him, "I was lucky in the stock market during college, and I didn't have any other plans for the money."

The blond snorts at the information.  "Of course, because it's perfectly reasonable for kid right out of college to buy his godfather a freaking _building_ when the man is feeling down."

"It wasn't like that," I say stiffly, put on edge by his tone.

Seifer straightens and admits with soft regret, "Sorry, Loire, I didn't mean... Hey, you did right to help him.  I can't imagine what it was like for the big guy to continue working that job when he must have seen your mother's face on every victim he came across."

Surprised by his apology, I glance at the taller man and notice the distant look to his eyes.  There's a cold glint to the bright emerald, suggesting that Seifer knows all too well what it means to see a loved one's face amongst the hurt and dead.  And there's nothing I can do to help Seifer.  I can't hold him, I can't tell him that everything will be all right... but I can make a few things easier in his complicated life.  Anything to take away that slump in his shoulders.

After a deep sigh, Seifer looks up at the sky with a surrendering gaze.  "This isn't what I wanted, y'know.  I thought I'd be standing on my own two feet by now, but I keep stumbling and fucking things up, no matter how hard I try... _Shit,_ it's frustrating as Hell to figure out that I can't do this myself and that I need to depend on someone else."

"I don't want you to depend on me," I correct with some understanding of his frustration.  "We're going to do this together."

Seifer stares at me for a long moment before breathing out a laugh.  "Fuck, you actually mean that, don't you?"

"I've already told you - this isn't a charity."

With a truer laugh, Seifer finally agrees, "All right, all right, I believe you, but it doesn't mean I'm going to enjoy the process."

"That's your problem," I say, my lips curling into a slight smirk.

Seifer sniggers and casually bumps my shoulder in rebuttal, a playful act that relieves some of the weight from my chest that has being growing whenever I watch the abnormally tame blond.  I was worried that Seifer had forgotten the more mischievous side of himself, but it's definitely there, if only hidden by the shadows of his troubled life.  And now that I know it exists, I want to do everything I can to make Seifer remember what it means to laugh again.

"Say, Loire," Seifer starts after a quiet moment.  "Do you really think that I can turn my life back around?"

"I wouldn't bother if I thought otherwise."

The blond smiles softly, as if wanting to believe, but afraid of being disappointed later.

Our talk ends at the edge of the parking lot that leads to the mall.  At the sight of warm shelter from freezing temperatures, Seifer speeds up his pace to the closest entrance, which also happens to be the department store I wanted to try first.  At least the advertisements seemed to have some good deals that would appeal to the blond and his worry of paying me back.  Seifer pushes through the glass doors, nearly forgetting to hold one open for me as he sighs in relief at the blast of hot air directly above the entrance.  Oddly, though, that expression of pleasure is cut short by a groan of annoyance.

"Damn it, I forgot how stores like this freaking _bleed_ Christmas at this time of year."

Curious at his reaction, I scan the store to discover that Seifer isn't exaggerating much.  Oversized bows and bobbles have been placed on every other available shelf, wide ribbons have been twisted around any column-like structure, and mannequins either hold or stand next to wrapped packages of all sizes.  I guess the sight of Christmas decorations since October had desensitized me to the fact that they were apparently breeding and slowly taking over the city.

I turn my gaze to Seifer and notice that his mood has soured once again.  "Is it going to be a problem?"

Though his scowl briefly deepens, he shakes his head and rakes his hand back through shaggy hair.  "Nah, all of the stores are going to be like this, and truthfully, I'd like to get this over with before I change my mind."

I eye Seifer while waiting for an actual explanation about his apparent dislike for the well-loved holiday, but when he offers nothing, I decide that I've been demanding enough for one day.  After a brief glance around to locate the men's department, I head in that direction and force Seifer to follow after me.

"So, what's on the shopping list?" Seifer asks, his voice still shadowed with reluctance.

"Work clothes are most important," I say when spotting a rack of collared shirts.  "Ward requires his waiting staff to wear white shirts and dark pants.  The shirts must have collars, but he allows jeans as long as they look clean and intact.  We probably should get the basics, too, like undershirts, socks, boxers, or whatever you prefer."

Seifer snorts at the addition.  "God, I feel like I'm shopping with my grandmother for the first day of school."

"Whatever helps you get through this..." I mutter, already rifling through the rack of white shirts.  I quickly find one that should fit Seifer and shove it in his direction.

Taking the shirt, Seifer glances at the tag in mild surprise.  "How did you guess my size?"

Something in his tone makes me scoff.  "Didn't you know?  All gay men have the inherent ability to determine a person's size simply by looking at them."

With a wary glance in my direction, Seifer says, "But... you got the right size."

"I also washed your clothes yesterday," I remind the blond, and then tack on a grumbled, "Idiot," for good measure.

"Oh, right..." Seifer acknowledges, but continues to look at me with an interested expression.  "Does that mean gay men aren't actually born with a fashion gene?  I mean, you seem to know how to dress right, and your clothes don't look like they are strictly off-the-rack."

"Buying clothes I like is one thing.  Spouting designer names is another."

Seifer chuckles at my irritated response, and after accepting another shirt I toss at him, he dares to ask, "I've been wondering... When did you figure it out?  That girls weren't your thing?"

I glare at the blond for the question, not appreciating the idea of him using my sexual orientation as some kind of joke or distraction.

"Hey now, I'm not attacking you or anything.  It's just..."  Rubbing the back of his neck, Seifer sighs and continues, "We only met again yesterday, after ten freaking years at that, and yet you seem to have me figured out to the point that it makes my head spin a little.  Meanwhile, I know shit about you, and I guess I want to balance the scales a bit."

I straighten at the unexpected explanation.  "You... want to know about me."

"Well, we're kind of roommates and all of that.  Does it seem that strange?"

I consider how to answer his question, and while want to declare that, yes, it is incredibly strange for Seifer to decide that he needs to know more about me, I also want to believe in his good intentions.  Returning to my search through poorly organized shirts, I don't meet his eyes when saying, "It was in the seventh grade."

"... And that's it?  Is there something magical about that age, or do you want me to start guessing the details?"

I sigh at the man's constant desire for more information than I feel like giving.  "If you must know, I happened to see a pair of students kissing between classes.  I guess the girl was pretty, but I found myself wanting to be her, and not the guy she was kissing.  I eventually realized that I liked the guy and how it was nothing I could change... and that's basically it."

Seifer shakes his head at my description.  "'Basically it...'  Do you realize that most guys in the same situation would panic and spend the rest of their lives trying to pretend it never happened, or at least the rest of their school lives?"

"I didn't see a reason to hide it."

"Of course you didn't," the blond says with an interested smirk.  "So, tell me, Sherlock - has anything in your life strayed away from your need to control everything with logic and reason?"

I say nothing, but my mind immediately supplies the answer that I have never been able to rely on rational thought when Seifer is involved.  If I could think clearly around the blond, I would have never believed him all those years ago when it came to his psychic visions... and in turn, my mother would have died at the hands of a sadist.  That one event is the only reason I started to believe in destiny and the invisible hand of Fate, and while I'm not exactly pleased with my hopeless love for a heterosexual man, I'm far more grateful for my mother's spared life.

"Hey, you still in there, Loire?" Seifer says jokingly, the only one who bothers to snap me out of deeper thoughts.

I look up at the man and notice how strands of hair had slipped over green eyes.  Before greater reason stops me, I lift a hand and brush aside the stray hairs, something Seifer allows with a startled expression.  "We should get you that haircut, too."

Seifer blinks, and unsurprisingly, leans back in a casual move that places him out of my reach.  "Uh, yeah, you mentioned that yesterday.  You know, I bet there's a place around here that could do it cheap.  It'd be nice to get a clean cut for a change."

"That's fine, but after we finish here."

"No way out of that, huh?" Seifer says with a laugh, but that humor fades before he asks, "I was also wondering... Can we get your mother a present?  Maybe a bracelet or something?"

Stunned by the question, I stare at the blond while trying to figure out what idiotic motive he has to use my mother like this.

Seifer lifts a hand to the back of his neck in a self-conscious move.  "I know it's going to sound crazy to you, but I'd like to get something that will work as a protection charm for her.  I don't know if it'd work or even help at the end of the day, but I have to try something... assuming that she's actually being haunted by Roth's ghost."

It takes a few more seconds before I recall our conversation from last night.  I have to admit that it unsettled me to hear Seifer's theory that my mother is being tormented beyond the grave by the man who broke her in this life, and for more than a few reasons, I don't want to believe him.  After all, if it's true, there's absolutely nothing I can do to help her, and it's all too familiar of an emotion that I don't want to experience twice.  But no matter how much I don't want to believe his theory, I would do anything for my mother, even if it tears me apart in the process.

"Hey, if it bothers you--"

"It can't be jewelry," I say before Seifer tries to take away his offer.  "She cuts herself with anything sharp."

Though Seifer frowns in concern, the man's eyes seem to hold a type of understanding for my mother's plight.  "That's a shame since jewelry tends to hold more meaning for women, but we can work around it.  It doesn't have to be anything specific, maybe a handkerchief or something else safe.  The trick is that it has to hold some kind of importance."

"Importance?"

"Yeah, something she will form a connection to and keep close whenever she can.  That's why jewelry would have been easiest, but you can probably think of something else that she would like."

I frown at the description, uncertain what would best suit my mother.  "I'll think about it.  In the meantime, this would go faster if you actually helped and found some clothes you want, aside from the things you need for work."

Instead of continuing to show his annoyance with this shopping trip, Seifer smiles with a strange curl of lips before he turns around and mutters something along the lines of, "Thank you for trusting me."

Not positive that I had heard correctly or even if Seifer had wanted me to hear him in the first place, I don't say anything to the blond and return to looking for a few more shirts that he can use at work.  Being a waiter is rarely a job that keeps white shirts spotless, and remembering how Seifer had spilled coffee on himself yesterday, not once, but twice, I decide to get an extra shirt, just in case and despite the grumbling from Seifer that I'll have to endure later.

~ > < ~

"... and as I'm certain you've already guessed, your father is here with your mother.  They are waiting for you in the usual spot, but first, I need your signatures, and then you can be on your way."

I barely take note of the talkative nurse as I accept the pen she hands me, and after a moment's hesitation, I scratch out my name and the current time for my arrival.  Few other people know what it's like to sign-in for the privilege to see a loved one, and while it was something that I barely thought about the first several times, it has become harder and harder with each visit.  My mother should be home at this time of the day, wearing a brightly colored apron and testing her latest 'chemistry' project to use in her second grade class.  I can almost imagine her now, a headband holding her hair back and her face smeared with food coloring... but I'm just fooling myself while staring at the signature that allows me to see the woman who is a shadow of the person in my memories.

"Hey, you alright there?" Seifer asks, his voice at a level that would be proper for a funeral.

"No, I'm not," I say as I drop the pen onto the clipboard and walk away from the front desk.  Behind me, Seifer hurries to sign his name and reaches my side before I get too far down the hallway.  Surprisingly, he doesn't say anything.  No easy words of false comfort, no suggestion that this isn't as bad as it seems... For as often as Seifer says he doesn't understand me, he has the occasional ability to guess exactly what I need from him.

It takes a hundred and twenty-seven steps, give or take, to reach the 'garden room' that my mother favors and the scenery never changes.  Compared to the institutions shown on TV, my father managed to find a place that has a warmer feel to it with walls painted in neutral colors, actual decorations on display in random places, and common areas filled with pieces of furniture that better suit a home environment than a mental ward.  It's all an illusion, though.  No glass covers the framed paintings on the walls, no bookshelf or dresser has a piece of metal that can be easily removed, and each corner has a ceiling camera poorly hidden behind a dome of black glass.  This is a horrible imitation of a home, and sadly, that is what makes this a safe place for my mother.

Eventually reaching a set of double-doors that had been left open, I stop at the threshold and look inside the 'garden room', its true identity being the 'East Common Area'.  The room is very similar to the other two common areas, each holding a collection of well-worn couches and sofa chairs, a set of heavy bookshelves filled with a variety of reading media, and tables scattered with playing cards and a chess board or two.  The important difference, however, is that the room has tall windows with a clear view of the garden outside, and even though the garden is little more than branches and withered leaves at this time of year, my mother finds comfort in looking outside and knowing that she's alive.  Hurt and struggling, but alive all the same.

And in a typical sight, my mother sits in the sofa chair closest to the large windows, her eyes of blue-gray focused on a point in the distance that only she can see, a place far away from here.

"Squall, you made it."

I turn at the cheerfully pleased voice and find my father walking toward us with a slow step and two coffee cups in hand.  For a man soon reaching fifty, Laguna Loire looks barely forty with a lean figure that appears athletically fit, long hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, and a casual attire of stonewashed jeans and a half-buttoned shirt.  His face also shows little of his age, but the last several years haven't been good to him with the constant care over my mother.  He found true love with Raine Leonhart, and though she is alive and within reach, his heart breaks each day that he spends with her, a sadness that only shows in his once warm eyes.

Lifting his arms to hug me, my father is abruptly reminded of the hot drinks in both hands, and when he seems to struggle with what to do about it, I take the mug from his right hand and leave myself open to one of his bruise-inducing hugs.

"God, you look good, son."

I huff against his shoulder.  "You look exhausted."

He chuckles away my observation and manages to hug even tighter.  "Your mother asks about you every day.  She loves hearing about your adventures as a private investigator, though admittedly, I may be embellishing a little bit."

"I'm certain she realizes that."

Pulling back from his hug, my father smiles a lonely smile before deciding to acknowledge the large blond at my side.  "And you must be Seifer Almasy," he comments while extending his free hand.  "Ward mentioned that Squall is helping you through a tough spot, though I have to admit that I'm surprised to see you here."

"Yeah, well, you can ask your son about that," Seifer says evasively while accepting the handshake, but immediately winces when my father squeezes tight per his habit.

My father promptly releases his hold at the reaction.  "Sorry, I didn't notice you were hurt."

Seifer mutters, "My fault for forgetting about it," while waving the pain from his injured hand, the fourth finger partially covered by medical tape to protect the recently sliced flesh.  He had done it shortly after our shopping trip, purposely hurting himself to create the protection charm meant for my mother.  It's hard to resist the urge to call him an idiot for forgetting something that had happened less than an hour ago.

Looking away from the blond, I ask my father, "How's Mom doing?"

"She's doing her best to hold on," he replies, even though his expression tells me that he knows perfectly well how I'm avoiding the topic of Seifer.  "I mentioned that you might be visiting and it's given her the strength to keep her thoughts straight."

I nod at the typical assurance from my father, and like many times before, it's the last piece of motivation I need before stepping into the 'garden room' and toward my seated mother.  In an offhanded manner, I notice that no one else is in the common area, but it's a familiar sight - very few of the other patients like to be around my mother, as if sensing something a sane person would ignore as childish fears.  My mother doesn't seem to notice me as I approach and set the mug of chamomile tea with a packet of honey on the small table at her side.  Even now, the smell of that drink makes me think of winters from my childhood with Christmas celebrations and ski trips at the local resorts, but sadly, those memories are slowly being dominated by these visits.

"Squall?"  At the soft call of my name, I look to my mother and meet her eyes that are sharper than they were during my last few visits.  "Oh Squall, I nearly thought you were Laguna for a moment there.  When he was young and handsome, of course."

With a light laugh, my father takes the seat directly across from his wife.  "It's funny you say that - I think he looks more and more like you every day, and I'll have you know, Kiros and Ward agree with me."

Ignoring the constant argument between the two, I kneel down in front of the woman who seems too skinny within oversized, flannel pajamas.  "How are you feeling, Mom?"

Dark light flickers within her eyes before she glances to the window.  "Some days are better than others.  The doctor prescribed some new medication, but it makes me tired, and you know how much I hate to sleep."

'And to dream,' I think to myself, reminded of Seifer's difficulty with something as simple as a night of restful sleep.  "I brought you a present," I say to pull her away from troubling thoughts.  As her gaze slowly returns to me, I turn my attention to the shopping bag I had brought inside and pull out a dark brown, knitted shawl.  Though it's hard to see, the edge of the shawl is smeared with blood, Seifer's blood... He said it was part of the 'spell' that should protect my mother, but that didn't make it any easier to watch him slice his finger.

I lift up onto my knees to place the shawl around her shoulders, something she allows while carefully watching my hands.

"It's warm," my mother says with surprise brightening the blue in her eyes.  "It's really _warm_..."

Not expecting that instant reaction, I suffer from a flash of unwanted hope that maybe things can get better, maybe I can have my mother back... But I have already learned that it's easier to not depend on wishes and faith.  "I'm glad that you like it," I say with a careful smile.  "It should keep away the chill, so wear it as often as you want."

She pulls the shawl tight around her shoulders.  "I will wear it everyday.  Thank you, sweetie."

I bow my head in momentary relief that Seifer's 'spell' may actually work despite his hesitation, and with that reminder, I look to the entrance and find that the blond hasn't budged while watching over us.  We had managed to get his hair cut after shopping, and with the longish strands out of the way, I've been reminded of the strange sharpness to his gaze.  The haircut along with new clothes and a long wool jacket has given Seifer a fresh appearance that is a welcomed change to the man I dragged into my place just yesterday.  I know it's all cosmetic and the physical and mental damage will take time to fade away, but it's good to see him cleaned up and officially restarting his life.

"Mom, there's someone I want you to meet."

Seifer stiffens at my comment, but already resigned to this meeting, he steps into the room with his feet dragging.  Somewhat amused by his actions, I focus on him longer than probably appropriate, and when I glance back at my mother, my heart skips a beat at her wide-eyed look of recognition.

"It's you... The angel who saved me," my mother whispers in awed reverence.

Startled, Seifer glances back over his shoulder as if hoping she was referring to someone else, but when realizing that he's the focus of her attention, he shows a wounded expression that has been more familiar as of late.  "I'm not an angel, Mrs. Loire.  I'm just a friend... well, more like an acquaintance from your son's past."

"You can't fool me," she argues with a desperate edge to her voice.  "I _saw_ you.  When He did those things to me and I would slip away from this world, you were there telling me to hold on.  You told me that you would figure out a way to save me, and that all I had to do was _hold on_."

Visibly uncomfortable by her conviction, Seifer looks at me and silently demands for help with the situation.  Unfortunate for him, my answer is to stand up and motion for him to come closer.  Begrudgingly, he does just that and kneels down in front of my mother in an apologetic pose, but says nothing that would bring too much attention to himself, just a pathetic muttering of, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?  For what?" my mother asks as she reaches out, her hand almost touching Seifer face.  "You saved me."

"Not soon enough."

"Nonsense," my mother dismisses.  Leaning back in her chair, she brushes a hand over her shawl and smiles.  "You helped Squall get this for me.  I can feel that it has been touched by Heaven's blessing."

Seifer gazes up at the dark-haired woman, his eyes wet from old fears that have yet to be proven true.  Granted, another person may have blamed him for what had happened, but I know my mother.  She has always had the better sense to know the right person to hold accountable for any wrongdoing, and in a way, that is what made her such a good teacher, not to mention a challenging mother.

From behind me, my father demands in a low voice, "What is happening here, Squall?"

Glancing over my shoulder, I say softly, "I'll explain later, but for different reasons, they both need this."

He stares at me with uncertainty clear in his pale green eyes, but thankfully, he trusts me enough to not ruin this meeting between my mother and Seifer.  Understanding my father better than I'd like to admit, I know he will embrace Seifer's powers with the faith and imagination of an author who has already written stories that describe similar supernatural abilities.  The true question, however, is if Seifer can reveal such a damaging secret to a man he doesn't know, and I think I already know the answer to that.

Not noticing her husband's disapproval, my mother inches closer to Seifer.  "I know you have already given me one miracle, my angel, but I can't sleep and I can barely live with Him still speaking to me and saying things I don't want to hear.  The doctors don't believe me when I say He touches my mind and twists my thoughts, but you believe me... Don't you?"

Briefly closing his eyes, Seifer whispers, "I do."

Buoyed by his response, my mother pleads, "Then I beg you, banish Him to Hell.  Save me from Him before He makes me do something that can't be undone."

"I'm sorry, but I don't have that power.  I'm not an angel, and I can't even--"

"No, _no_ , don't lie to me.  I _saw_ you when I needed you the most," she insists as tears begin to slip from her eyes.  "And now, when I need your strength once more, you come here... But you say that you can't save me?  Is it... is it because I'm a whore?"

Seifer's eyes fly open at the question.  "Wha...  No, I don't.... You're _not_..."

"That's it, isn't it?" my mother concludes as she wraps her arms across her body and claws at her pajama-covered arms.  "I'm a stupid, _filthy_ whore who doesn't deserve the help of an angel.  But... I have a good mouth for cock.  Everyone says so.  Maybe I can earn your help?  I'll do anything you want.  _Anything_."

Dumbfounded by the impossible offer, Seifer stares at the woman as if she had been replaced by a monster, which is his own fault in a way.  My mother isn't here because she enjoys the diverse company only offered by a mental institution.  I place a hand on his shoulder, and when he looks up at me in a startled jerk, I motion for him to move out of the way.  At first confused, he glances behind me to notice that my father had stood up and was anxious to reach his wife.

As soon as Seifer moves, my father takes his place and rests a careful hand on an overly thin shoulder.  Ignoring her flinch, he coaxes, "It's been a long day, Raine.  Why don't I take you to your room?"

Blinking up at her husband, she asks in puzzlement, "Did I say something wrong again?"

"It's alright.  You're just exhausted."

With a nod in agreement, my mother pushes up from her seat and reluctantly allows him to hold her arm in support.  "Are you going to punish me again?  Are you going to tie me to the bed and rape me for what I did wrong?"

"You know I won't do that," my father scolds in an injured manner, still hurt by the false accusations caused by twisted memories.

"You can burn me for being stupid.  I know I deserve it," my mother says, even as shameful tears flow down her face.

"Don't say that, my love," he argues while lifting a hand to instinctively wipe away her tears, but my mother expertly leans away from his touch.  With a sigh, my father nods and leads her out of the room she favors the most in this place.  From experience, I know that she'll fight him when reaching her room, the idea of rest and sleep a terrifying prospect to the woman.  And after all of these years, when I finally understand the reason for her fear, I can't blame her for wanting to stay awake and free of her tormentor's control.

"What the _fuck_ was _that?_ " Seifer demands quietly, his eyes still focused on the empty doorway my parents had stepped through.

"My mother," I say cynically, which earns me a glare from the unsettled blond.  After a deep breath, I tell him, "I was hoping you wouldn't see this side of her.  She usually can control herself when I visit, but I guess you excited her more than she could handle."

"No shit, Sherlock, but damn it, why didn't you think to warn me or something?"

"... The last time I was here, I helped her to her room.  She was lying on her bed and she informed me that, if I was going to fist fuck her while she was asleep, I should wear some rings.  It would make her bleed more."  Looking to the blond, I ask him, "How exactly am I suppose to warn you about something like that?"

Seifer stares at me for a long minute, unable to think of anything to say in response, not that there is something he can say.  I've been living with this reality for years, and while my mother wasn't so 'vocal' at the beginning, the sting of her raving words gets through my shields every time.  Nothing else can be said that could possibly take away that pain.

Eventually bowing his head in surrender, Seifer reveals, "If it helps at all, I can feel that fucker's taint around her.  It's actually kind of disturbing to feel his energy when he's not even around, probably torturing some other innocent soul."  His teeth clenched in anger, he adds, "This isn't your mother's fault, Loire, not in the least."

"It helps," I say softly, not too certain if the statement is true.

"And just so you know, I really do wish that I could do something.  My mother... She knew how to do that sort of thing, but I was too young to learn that stuff before she died.  Hell, I don't even know if I _can_ do anything she could."

I shake my head at his frustration.  "I didn't mean to bring you here for that reason.  This was supposed to help you, and not make things worse."

Seifer raises his head and seems to give my words some thought.  "You know, I think this was a good thing.  I've always avoided my powers, like they were a disease or something, but if I can help your mom... No, I'm _going to_ figure it out.  I swear, Loire, I'm going to do everything I can to save her."

I openly study his face, which is somehow more handsome in his new found determination, and I'm struck by the sensation of falling in love yet again with this reckless man.  A part of me wonders if I always knew this would be his method to pay me back, but at the same time, there's a fleeting worry that if he fails in this, I may lose him forever.  Either way, this isn't my choice to make and it seems that Seifer has already selected his new path to follow, as rocky and dangerous as it may be.

"Thank you," I say when I can't think of any other words, at least none that wouldn't scare him away.

Seifer turns toward me and smiles with a slight show of teeth.  "Don't thank me yet, Sherlock.  I have a long way to go."

"You want to help.  That's enough for me."

His brows furrow in readiness to argue, but before Seifer can say a word, my father appears at the doorway and shows an expression that is atypically irritated.  "Now, who is going to explain what just happened there?"

I glance at Seifer, and when the blond seems to lose all sense of determination in front of my father, I know that I'll have to handle this situation carefully.  "What do you want to know?"

Incredulous, he demands, "Why does your mother think this 'friend' of yours is an angel?"

"I'm not certain," I say as honestly as I can, "but... Back when we were looking for Mom, do you remember how I said an anonymous witness told me the name of the man who had her?"

My father immediately looks to Seifer.  "You're... You're the witness?"

Wincing at the direction question, the blond lifts a hand to the back of his neck and averts his gaze.

"It's a complicated issue," I tell my father, hoping that today isn't one of his denser days.  "Eventually, I may be able to explain everything, but for now, trust me when I say that Mom is alive because of Seifer."

"No, of course... of course..."  In his spontaneous way, my father abruptly moves forward and wraps his arms around Seifer, not caring if the hug would be welcomed by the taller man.  "God, I don't care what happened, whether legal, illegal, or even a dream that came to you," he says within a mix of laughter and held back tears.  "You saved my wife from a demon and I can't begin to repay you.  Please, anything you want, it's yours."

Looking helpless, Seifer awkwardly places a hand at the older man's shoulder.  "Really, that's not necessary.  Loire... uh, I mean, Squall is doing more than enough to help me out.  Too much, actually."

Reminded of that fact, my father releases Seifer while asking me, "Is this why you're helping him?  Ward was... well, of another assumption."

I snort at the full knowledge of what Ward would have assumed about Seifer living with me.  While the man denies it, he's a worse gossip than most of the women I've dealt with, and that includes my various informants.

My father chuckles at my reaction, a rare shine of happiness brightening his eyes.  "I'm glad you came today, Squall.  While it could have gone better, I haven't seen your mother that animated in months.  And she adores your gift.  She insisted wearing it when lying down for her nap, as if it were a protective blanket from her childhood."

I nod in relief that she has already found comfort from the shawl, even if Seifer's fears ultimately prove true and it doesn't fully protect her from vindictive ghosts.

"Well, since your mother is resting, why don't I treat you both to dinner?  I haven't heard anything about your latest cases and your mother is anxious to know everything you've been up to.  She also mentioned something about convincing you to settle down with a nice boy.  Actually, she's quite fond a nurse who works on the weekends..."  When I glare at him for the interference, my father raises his hands in surrender.  "Alright, alright, it was just suggestion, but you can't be a bachelor forever, son.  It's not in your blood."

Watching as he slaps a hand against Seifer's back and encourages the blond forward, I frown at the truth that I'm not very well suited to my current lifestyle.  It would be nice to have a relationship like my parents, a loving couple who met through a terrible blind date that, ironically, led to my father wearing an eye patch for nearly a week afterward due to an incident with a champagne cork.  One-night stands suit their purpose, but they serve no comfort after a day like today.  To lie in bed and be held by someone who knows and understands... Unfortunately, my heart has no commonsense and I'm trapped loving someone who is perfect in every way except one - he can never love me back.

"Are you joining us, son?" my father asks from the doorway, his smile soft though hinted with worry.

In response, I step toward the waiting pair and inform my father, "I'm not letting you pay."

He grins a fool's grin, though noticeably doesn't agree to my condition.  Knowing his methods, our server will have his credit card in hand before we even make our drink orders, which is more skillful than it sounds - I've tried to beat him at his own game during our last three dinners, and it never seems to stick.  With my father telling me to 'not worry about it,' he ushers Seifer and me out of the institution and coaxes us into his car.  I probably should have warned Seifer that dinner with my father would be a possibility, but I didn't want him to have another excuse to avoid coming with me today.  Prepared or not, it's better for Seifer to become better acquainted with my unusual family - it'll make things easier when they decide to show up unannounced and assault him with awkward questions.

"So, Seifer," my father begins while starting the car, "are any of your friends gay and available?"

When a snort of laughter escapes the blond, I realize that Seifer may actually enjoy tonight, but only at my expense, and it doesn't seem as much of a sacrifice as it sounds.  I'd do anything to hear his deep laugh again, even if I'm an idiot for wanting it.  Laughter heals, supposedly, and Seifer deserves every chance to close old wounds.  Then one day, when he is whole again, he won't need me anymore and he'll move on with his life, leaving me behind without a second thought.  And somehow, I know that is what I want... even if I may have to convince myself of that in the future.

~ > < ~

"Damn, Loire, when I imagined what your dad was like, I did _not_ picture a man like Laguna."

Not contributing to the comment, I unlock the door to my condo and step inside to flip on the lights, more for Seifer's benefit than my own.  The dinner with my father had lasted well over two hours given his excitement to tell old stories to a fresh pair of ears, and before even reaching the restaurant, he had convinced Seifer to call him 'Laguna' and not 'Mr. Loire'.  It's stupid, but I can't help feeling annoyed how Seifer easily calls my father by name in the same sentence of using 'Loire' instead of 'Squall'.

Following close behind me to get out of the cold, Seifer continues to describe, "I swore your dad would be some hard-ass military officer or a freaking Navy Seal, or at least _someone_ who taught you to be so uptight and righteous.  Are you sure your mom didn't have an affair or something?"

"Did you already forget about the twenty minutes Dad wasted talking about his time in the military?"

Seifer shakes his head.  " _That_ is almost as unbelievable as him being your dad."

Unable to argue his point, I remove my boots and hang up my jacket before padding into the nicely heated condo.  One day, I should consider getting a better mode of transportation, something with a heater at the minimum.

After carefully hanging up his new coat and toeing off old sneakers, Seifer trails after me toward the kitchen area and takes a seat at one of the barstools in front of the counter dividing the kitchen and living room.  When I pull down a pot from its hook, I can feel green eyes watching my movements as I gather milk, cocoa, sugar, and a few spices to prepare some hot chocolate to drive away the lingering chill from the ride home.  Personally, I would rather something stronger, but given Seifer's history with alcohol, I'll be satisfied enough from the richness of chocolate.

"Do you make everything from scratch?"

I shrug in reply, not certain what would count as 'cooking from scratch'.

Seifer snorts at my silence.  "I have to say, Loire, I never pegged you as a guy who cooks and all that.  You don't seem like someone who takes pleasure in eating a good meal."

"I don't really," I admit while stirring the dark liquid, "but back in the day, I would help my mother in the kitchen and I learned everything from her.  I guess it's more of a habit than anything else."

"Right, a 'habit'," Seifer repeats sarcastically, reflecting the knowledge of someone else who has lost a mother.  I suppose my desire to cook is something akin to Seifer's need to hold onto the last gift from his mother... and with that thought, I frown and glance in the direction of his room where his plush dragon is most likely sitting on top of his bed.

"Something wrong there?" Seifer asks, cautiously glancing over his shoulder as if looking for an intruder.

"That toy dragon..."  A nearly unheard correction of 'Dog' is muttered before I ask, "Does it work like the shawl we gave my mother?"

After a surprised second, Seifer smiles lightly.  "Well, that took you long enough, Sherlock.  Have you been thinking about it all day?"

"No... But that helps to explain why you sleep with a stuffed animal."

"Hey now, don't insult my little guardian.  He's a vicious thing when he feels like it."

With a faint smile at his playful tone, I return to watching over the heating liquid and stir slowly while waiting for the first signs of boiling.  It doesn't take much longer, and after turning off the stove, I pour the steaming hot chocolate into a couple of large mugs.  Mugs in hand, I turn around and offer Seifer his share, the blond accepting it with an odd expression as he stares into the dark liquid.

"You don't have to drink it," I say while wrapping my hands around my mug, the warmth comforting against my cool skin.

Green eyes lift to meet my gaze and he smirks with amusement.  "Nice try, Loire, but that's not what I was thinking."

When he says nothing further, I raise an eyebrow in silent question.

His smirk fades to a more pensive line.  "I guess I was thinking of my mom.  She loved hot chocolate, though I think she was hiding a hint of brandy in it.  One of those, 'don't let the kid know you're an alcoholic' situations."

"... She cared enough to hide it."

Seifer breaths a laugh at my attempt to console him.  "Shit, you don't have to tell me that I'm being a hypocrite.  I know damn well why she drank, but... I guess I can't help blaming her for everything, whether it was actually her fault or not."

The admission stirs up a variety of emotions in my chest: some anger toward the disrespect for his mother, some pity for his childish need to blame others, some sadness at how this is tearing him up inside.  Not quite certain what emotion will ultimately win out, I look down at my drink and say carefully, "You don't have to tell me this."

Seifer shifts back in his seat, maybe surprised by his openness, but he then huffs in realization.  "You know, I think maybe I do."  When I return my gaze to the blond, Seifer explains, "You're the only one left who knows anything about me, and after you let me to see your mother the way she is, I guess I feel like I owe you the same."

"You don't owe me anything."

"So you say, but I think we both know better than that," Seifer scolds before blowing cool air over his drink and taking a careful sip.  Green eyes immediately brighten at the taste.  "Hey, not bad... not bad at all.  What's in it?"

"It's probably the chili powder.  Most people don't expect it."

"Is there anything you don't know, Sherlock?" Seifer asks with a smirk, and then takes another sip of hot liquid.  "Hn, if you keep doing shit like this, you'll never get rid of me."

I scoff at his assumption that I can't kick him out whenever I want... and I trust myself as much as smokers who say they can quit at any point.

Looking into his mug, Seifer says in a hoarse voice, "Just so you know, I don't hate my mother.  I hate that she wasn't around when I needed her, and I hate that she..."  He shakes his head and doesn't finish the thought.  "She did her best, more than what I could've done, and I tend to forget that."

"What was her name?"

Startled by the question, Seifer looks up at me and takes a few moments before answering, "Cassandra, after that woman in the Greek myth no one believed whenever she talked about her visions.  My grandmother had an odd sense of humor about her powers, though they weren't as strong as what my mom ended up with.  Ironically enough, my grandmother was the one who did the whole fortuneteller gig in a carnival for a living... well, before she met her husband and settled down."

"Cassandra is a good name."

"Yeah, I once thought I'd name my daughter that, but I don't think I want kids.  It wouldn't be fair giving them this life."  With a weird laugh, Seifer adds, "My mom didn't plan on me for the same reason, but I don't think she planned on being raped either."

"... She still had you."

With a deep sigh, Seifer concedes, "Yeah, she certainly did, and she even loved me for as long as she was around.  But you know, now that I think about it, it's funny how I blame her for so much shit, but never for not loving me.  That was one thing I never doubted."

Watching him carefully, I ask something I've always wanted to know - "What happened to her?"

Green eyes shift with animalistic wariness, but before I can retract my question, Seifer returns his gaze to dark liquid.  "According to the police reports, she killed herself.  In actuality... She was broken inside and couldn't protect herself from a fucking dead man."

Not liking his tone, I try to fix the situation.  "Sorry, I shouldn't have pried--"

" _No_ , I want to tell you," Seifer insists without looking at me.  "No one believed me back then since my grandmother was gone by that point and my grandfather didn't like talking about our 'ghost nonsense'.  Hell, he wasn't even my mom's real dad, just her step-father, and I think he regretted getting mixed up in our family.  He only took care of me because there was no one else and he was an honorable old bastard."

With no real response to offer him, I step around the counter and take a seat on the stool next to Seifer.  He watches me from the corner of his eyes, and when I do nothing more than drink my hot chocolate, he smirks at my unspoken promise to hear whatever he needs to tell me.

"My mom was better than me," he begins in a wistful voice.  "She actually wanted to change the world and save lives, even as she was falling apart herself.  Supporting a kid and helping strangers didn't exactly lead to a healthy lifestyle.  And then, after years of doing so much good... she messed up.  She had a vision about a little boy being run over by a bus, and when she tried to stop it, she startled the driver and ultimately _caused_ that kid's death.  It shattered her belief system to think that the kid may have survived if she hadn't acted like she did."

I frown at his conclusion and wonder if he missed the point of that key event, but it won't help Seifer now to interrupt and ask him if the boy happened to be blond and maybe green-eyed.  If it's true, I can only imagine it giving him another reason to hate his existence, instead of offering the relief he needs.

"The thing is, my bastard father was harassing her since his death a year earlier, and when that kid died, she didn't have the willpower to protect herself anymore."  His hand steady but tight around his mug, Seifer continues, "I was nine when I watched her die.  I woke up, I'm not certain why, and I walked into the living room to find my mom holding a knife to her throat and the ghost of her rapist standing behind her, egging her on.  Her eyes were closed and tears covered her cheeks... I don't think she knew I was there since I refuse to believe that she would've wanted that as my last memory of her."

Seifer pauses there and glances down at his arm with a startled look, an expression I may share since I don't exactly remember placing my hand above his wrist.  But even with that awkward realization, I don't release my hold as I can already feel the unseen shivers of his body, and well, Seifer said yesterday that he doesn't mind me touching him.  This should prove if that's true or not.

A pathetic smile flickers across thin lips, but that quickly fades when his brows draw inward.  "More than the actual deed, I remember how my bastard father laughed... fucking _cackled_ like a hyena at my mom's death.  He cheered and taunted her dead body, as if he had won some _game_.  And all that time, I just stood there and watched, unable to do anything about it."

"Don't say that," I demand as my hand tightens around his wrist.  "I don't know who that man was, but from what I've heard, he's a coward who makes himself stronger by exploiting the weaknesses of others."

"You don't--"

"I understand just fine.  I've dealt with his type more than once in my life, and the moment someone challenges their 'invulnerability', they fall apart into a weeping mess."

Seifer scoffs at the claim.  "That bastard beat the shit out of the people who challenged him."

"Is that true, or did he stalk his victims and attack them from behind?"

"Does it really matter?"

I jerk at his arm and force eye contact between us.  "He got into your head when you were a helpless kid, and you haven't been able to shake him ever since.  He's untouchable as things currently stand, but the minute you figure out how to harm him, he will run away like the coward he is.  I promise you that."

Seifer blinks while staring at me, and then curses in a disbelieving breath, "Holy shit... Holy _shit_."  When I frown at his confusing reaction, Seifer straightens and explains almost excitedly, "Last night...  Something happened when I tried to punch him, I don't know what, but he vanished instead of taunting me for trying to punch a damned ghost.  He _bolted_ instead of facing me..."  His resulting laughter sounds a touch too much like sobbing, but I don't fault him for the needed release of complex emotions.

"You'll figure it out, Seifer," I say when the hysterical laughter dies down.  "I have faith in you."

"... And why is that?"

With no reply I can give him, I withdraw my hand from his arm, but he quickly grabs my wrist.

"I watched my mother fall apart for almost a year, and while I was only a kid, I understood what was happening.  And now, in the last couple of months, I've seen the same shadows in my own eyes that once danced in hers.  Then suddenly you appear and you do something _stupid_ like making me believe that my life may actually have a purpose..."  Carefully releasing his hold, Seifer asks stubbornly, "Why do you believe in me, Loire?  And don't you dare use that same old song about your mother, because we both know damned well that you had to trust me before that, or else you would've never met with a prick like me in the first place."

Unable to tell him the truth, I ask in return, "Doesn't that also imply you had to trust _me_ to be able to reveal something that sounded so insane?"

Seifer scowls at the question being turned back on him.  "You're fucking Squall Loire - everyone in high school knew you were a guy who plays by the rules and never says shit about other people.  You were safe, and frankly, your mother wasn't."

I nod at his conclusion.  "I also knew who you were, albeit from a distance."

"I was a cliché, block-headed jock, Loire.  Don't tell me that you saw something trustworthy in _that_."

I show a small smile before sliding off my stool and walking in the direction of the shopping bags left next to my couch.  Seifer grumbles something under his breath about 'blood from a stone' and chugs the last of his hot chocolate before moving around the counter to pour himself a second serving.  Meanwhile, I grab a pair of scissors from my desk and start freeing the new clothes of their tags.  When I'm about halfway through, Seifer stands over me and clears his throat loudly.

"I still want the receipt that's hidden in one of those bags."

I shrug as it wasn't my plan to keep it from him.  It was simply easier to toss the receipt into a bag, especially when I have other plans to 'misplace' his older clothes into the incinerator.  I have a better chance of Seifer forgiving me as long as he has the receipt for the new clothes in hand.

Once I give him the long slip of paper, Seifer glances at the total even though he was at the register when it was tallied.  After scowling at that number, he shoves the receipt into his pocket and announces, "I'm still going to pay you back, Loire.  Even if I have to beg for change in the subway, I'll pay back every cent."

"I'm certain you will," I agree quietly, wondering how long it will take for Seifer to realize that money isn't the only currency when it comes to 'paying back' a person.

He eyes me for a suspicious moment before taking a seat across from me.  "I also can do my own damn laundry."

To acknowledge his statement, I hand him the scissors and move to the couch for a more comfortable position.  With my elbow on the arm of the couch and my hand propped under my chin, I watch Seifer as he goes through the remaining bags of clothes.  In truth, I never imagined that his life held so many shadows.  It seems Seifer is a better actor than anyone realized, both as a teenager and into adulthood, and I don't like it when I've underestimated the situation before me.  Worse, it's this elusive side of the man that has been an allure for years, and I hate that I want even more.

... Damn it, why do I feel like I've already been bitten by this wolf?

* * *

Allowing my motorcycle to coast into a parking spot between cars, I study the length of apartment buildings mixed in with townhomes, the buildings stacked together such that barely an inch separate the structures.  It gives a cramped, big city feeling that doesn't allow for much personal space, but the location is best for those wanting a relatively safe neighborhood and something close to the business sector of Garden.  If my life had gone as planned, I probably would've ended up in one of these buildings, along with an accounting job somewhere downtown.  One of these days, I may have to thank my father for giving me a more interesting life... but not anytime soon.

"God, Loire, you need a fucking _car_ ," Seifer complains as he pushes off my bike in a clumsy move.  "It's too cold to be dicking around on a motorcycle."

With no interest in arguing the pros and cons of using a motorcycle, I dismount with more experience than the grumbling blond and hang my helmet over a handlebar.  From the inner pocket of my jacket, I grab an old notepad and double check the address I had written down before walking in the direction of 1108 Oceanic Ave.  The building turns out to be a three-story townhouse with Christmas lights decorating the stairway and a fresh wreath hanging on the front door.  I can practically hear Seifer's teeth grinding at the sight.

"So, why am I here again?"

"You're bored and I might need your help."

He snorts at my explanation, but he can't deny its validity.

After washing his new clothes last night, Seifer twice stumbled over his own two feet when heading to bed, an amusing sight when I had another few hours before I was tired enough to do the same.  This morning, the sleep-deprived man was surprisingly the first one up and freshly showered when making a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast.  When I asked if a dream had wakened him, Seifer denied it was anything serious, just a blurry series of images that meant nothing to him.  His words and tone didn't exactly match, which made me wonder if he was frustrated by his inability to understand the vision.  To keep him from dwelling on it, I decided to drag him along for this case, the phone call coming shortly after breakfast.  While there may be nothing for him to do, I feel better having him by my side instead of alone in the condo, especially after that disturbing story of his mother's death.

As we walk up the stairs to the main floor, Seifer asks, "Is there something I should do?"

"Stand there and look pretty," is my only advice before I ring the doorbell.

The melodious chime barely ends when the door jerks open to reveal a lovely woman in her early forties, though she appears younger with features suggesting mixed blood of some Asian decent.  Her unusually blond hair tied in a messy bun and deep blue eyes reddened from spent tears, it's obvious that the woman has had a very difficult morning.  "Are you Mr. Loire?"

"Squall is fine, Mrs. Gaines." I remind her from our phone call.  "And this is my associate, Seifer Almasy."

She smiles pitifully at the introductions.  "Please, it's Kohana, or Hana if you prefer.  And thank you... Thank you so very much for coming here."  Stepping to the side, she motions for us to come inside and points out the spot to leave shoes before entering.  "Detective Tilmitt spoke highly of you, but I admit, I was expecting someone older."

Not offended by the common misunderstanding, I follow after the woman while taking note of the black and white photos in the hallways, several of which showing a family of four - Kohana always next to a balding, white man in his fifties, and with them was assumedly a son and daughter, the son many years older than his sister and sharing more of his mother's Asian features.  Several assumptions could be made from the pictures of outings and milestone events in the children's lives, but it would be best to let the mother explain everything from her point of view.

Seifer and I remain standing while Kohana takes a seat at the kitchen table, the phone within reach.  "You must think I'm being overprotective to worry about my son, my little Riku, but I've seen the news coverage about that 'Johnny Killer' and I _can't_..."  She presses a fist to her mouth, a sign that she had promised herself to not cry in front of me.

I flip to a new page in my notebook and encourage her, "Would you mind starting from the beginning?"

Kohana nods, and after a steadying breath, she describes, "A little before noon, I received a call from Riku's friend, Sora.  He wanted to know if Riku was sick and staying home from school, which surprised me since I watched Riku leave this morning with his school things.  I called the high school and they said they had a note signed by me detailing his absence for the day.  When I heard that, I went to his room... Some of his clothes were gone, as well as his laptop.  I called the police once I realized..."

While jotting some notes, I ask her, "If you were able to speak with the police--"

"Why did I call you?" she finishes with a weak smile.  At my nods, she explains, "Riku turned sixteen last month, and when teenagers run away, the police don't try as hard to locate them.  There is also the matter that Riku ran away once before, but as I tried to explain to the police, he was only seven at the time and some neighborhood bullies convinced him that his step-father wouldn't want someone else's son around after our daughter, Karin, was born.  It was so ridiculous..."

And thus the differences I noticed in the photos.  "What information was Detective Tilmitt able to give you?"

"Just that they'd have his picture circulated, and places like bus stations and the airport would be on alert... But they won't _look for him_."  After a shaky breath, Kohana continues, "That's when the detective gave me your card and assured me that you have a gift when it comes to finding people.  I called you immediately.  So _please_ , tell me that you can help."

Frowning at her plea, I remind the distraught woman, "Did Detective Tilmitt also warn you that my services can be expensive?"

"Money is not an issue when it comes to my son's safety.  I don't have cash now, but my husband will be here shortly--"

"A deposit isn't necessary," I say with the knowledge that every minute is important when finding a person who doesn't want to be found.  "I would like a chance to see your son's room, but before that, I need you to answer this question as honestly as possible - is there a reason for him to leave?"

Kohana frowns and slowly shakes her head.  "I've spent the last hour asking that very question.  My husband loves him like a son, Karin won't know what to do without her big brother, and I... If it's something I did..."  Deteriorating into tears, she presses a hand to her face to hide the evidence.

Satisfied with her answer, I tuck away my notepad.  "If you would point me toward his room..."

"Upstairs, the last door to the left."

Leaving the woman to her worry, I move past Seifer to exit the kitchen and head toward the narrow stairway that leads to the third floor.  Seifer hesitates, clearly wanting to do something for the mother, but instead follows after me.  It's a simple matter to find the teen's room, a plain white door across from one decorated with stickers of unicorns and rainbows.  Stepping inside the boy's room, I immediately notice that it's far too organized for a teenage boy.  Everything in its place, everything at a nice, perfect angle... It reminds me of my own room back in high school.

"Damn it, Loire, why didn't you try to console that poor woman?" Seifer demands after closing the door.

"She wants her son and I'll bring him back," I say while moving toward the desk, apparently missing its laptop.  "Words don't hold any weight compared to that."

"That's not the point.  It wouldn't kill you to pat her on the shoulder or something."  Moving inside, Seifer sits on the bed and leans back on his hands.  "So, is this what you do?  Find runaways and drag them back home?"

"Actually, stalking spouses brings in more revenue, followed by lost cats and dogs.  Kids are usually found by the police before someone thinks to call me."

Seifer hums with interest, and then glances around the small room.  "Why do you think he ran away?  This feels like a good home without any nasty shadows or secrets."

I glance back over my shoulder, curious if he means something more by that statement.  One of these days, I need to sit this man down and actually figure out what abilities he controls.  "He's a teenage boy.  With hormones in the mix, any event can seem world-ending.  The real question is where he would go."

"Hey, you're the one who asked his mother about why he'd leave."

"Because I don't want to bring a kid back into a potentially abusive situation," I say while scanning over the bookcase next to his bed.  Worn textbooks, a decent number of fantasy novels, a few nonfiction texts about wars throughout history, random baseball mementos and collectables...

"It's not abusive," Seifer insists.

"That's what I assumed given the mother's reaction."  I grab a binder from the shelf and flip through the pages of chemistry notes, his handwriting crisp and neat, all in capital letters.

"Well, my money is on the bus station and he's already long gone.  He's had, what, four or five hours to get somewhere out of the city?"

"In that case, the police will find him.  The kid has a face that most ticket tellers and other workers will remember.  Security cameras can do the rest."

"... But you don't think that's what he did."

I put the binder back into its place.  "He's tried this once before, and now he's older and understands the ways technology can find a person.  I don't think he'll do the expected... and he won't want to waste his limited cash reserves."

Interested, Seifer sits forward with his arms resting on his thighs.  "Why do you think that?"

"He's sixteen, an honor student, and most likely stupid enough to think that he's old enough to live on his own," I reply while continuing my study of the bookcase.  "Whatever made him run, he probably planned this thoroughly, all the way to how he would support himself.  He knew that running away would also mean living away from home and from his parents' support... Assuming that, how would you plan to do it?"

Seifer laughs at the question.  "You have a short memory if you think I know how to live on my own."

"You did fine given the challenges against you."

"Right, if you say so," Seifer says before scratching his fingers through shortened blond hair.  "Well, there is always the standard of walking to get somewhere, and if he has friends in the area, he could crash with them."

After a cursory glance at an old fashioned soda glass and the baseball propped on top, I look to the photo perched against the smooth surface.  The teen of silver hair and green-blue eyes smiles broadly from the photo while holding up a trophy, something connected to a baseball competition given his uniform with 'Dragons' written across the front.  At his side is a younger and far shorter boy, also dressed in a baseball uniform, but the team name is cut off by the photo.  He tries to frown at the older boy, but can't suppress a smile of pride that is reflected in bright blue eyes, and for that reason, it's a strange expression he shows while enduring the arm wrapped casually around his shoulders.

Seifer clears his throat to remind me he's there, prompting me to murmur distractedly, "The chance of him having older friends with both a place of their own and room for a teenage runaway is slim."

"Alright, then same theory, but different application - a friend gives him a ride wherever he wants to go.  Sixteen-year-olds know how to drive, after all."

"That still leaves the chance of the friend being found, and that leading to the kid's whereabouts."  I take the photo in hand and hold it close to potentially determine the name written on the younger boy's white jersey.  Only the beginning 'S' is clear enough to see, which leads me to wonder if he's the 'Sora' who noticed his friend's absence.

Growling at my argument, Seifer complains, "Face it, Loire, there's no way to know where that kid went.  If he didn't go by plane, train, or fucking bus, then how are we supposed to find him?"

"We simply do," I say, knowing that something will come up.  A clue, a mistake, something... and when I return the photo to its place, my eyes lift to find something I hadn't noticed earlier.  Placing my fingers at the base of the soda glass, I turn it slowly to reveal the poor quality etching of a diner name I recognize fairly well, and there's nothing about the place which should attract a teenager... unless said teenager was planning a way to leave Garden unnoticed, granted a rather risky way.

A soft knock sounds and Kohana slowly opens the door.  "I'm sorry to interrupt, but is there anything I can do?  A drink or snack I can offer you?"

"Actually, I was wondering if you knew where this came from," I say while tapping at the soda glass.

The mother frowns in thought.  "No, not particularly.  He brought it home the other week and said he got it free for buying... some drink or another..."

When she can't seem to remember, I offer, "A root beer float?"

"Yes, that's right, a root beer float... Is that important for some reason?"

"I hope not," I say under my breath, but I know better than that.  This feels right compared to the other options out there, and frankly, teenagers tend to be incredibly stupid when they are trying to be smart.  "I imagine the police already said this, but you should stay here in case your son tries to contact you or returns home."  When she nods with understanding, I look at Seifer and motion that it's time for us to leave, something that surprises the blond.

Kohana escorts us to the entrance, and after we slip on boots and sneakers, I'm the first to leave with Seifer lagging behind me.  Thankfully, he knows better than to say anything until the door is closed and noticeably left unlocked by the anxious mother.

"So, what _is_ the significance behind a root beer float?"

"Nothing," I say as I grab the dark red helmet from my seat and toss it at the blond.

Catching the helmet, Seifer insists, "There has to be something, Sherlock, because you don't leap unless you have an idea of where you're landing."

As my reply, I strap on my own helmet and straddle over the waiting motorcycle to start the engine.  Knowing that I have few qualms with leaving people behind, Seifer is soon behind me with his arms wrapped around my waist, his strong hold suggesting how much he cares for this mode of transportation.  Pulling out into the street, I hit the accelerator a bit harder than usual and dance above the speed limit, the act making Seifer tighten his hold in mild terror.  It's a shame I'll have to trade in my bike for Ward's loaner car to make room for the runaway, but I suppose there will be a heater involved, so it won't be a complete loss... just a very noticeable one.

~ > < ~

"... You can't be serious."

Since Seifer isn't expecting a reply, I simply pull the car borrowed from my uncle into one of many available spaces in front of 'JR's Spot', a diner that was built off of a large motel that has seen better days, but still suits its purpose as a cheap, one-night stay for tired truck drivers.  The vast parking lot to the side is near empty, which is to be expected of midday on a Friday.  By tonight, it'll be packed with semi-trucks from all corners of the country and bored drivers who are willing to take on a freeloading passenger, even if they are suspiciously young looking despite whatever age they claim.

"Why on Earth would a kid think that something like this is a smart plan?" Seifer mutters while eyeing the semi-trucks parked nearby.

"Because he's distracted by something else," is my reply as I exit the car, the blond soon behind me.

We enter the diner to the typical smell of greasy food and strong coffee, and though it's mostly empty, several patrons are seated at the counter with half-eaten meals and no interest in our entrance.  Booths line the other side of the diner, and two booths away, there is a single occupant with his face hidden beneath the bill of his baseball cap... a 'Dragons' baseball cap.

"Well, Leon, what're you doin' here?"

Turning toward the counter, I find an older woman wearing an old fashioned waitress uniform and smiling the nicotine-stained smile of a chain smoker.  Though I feel Seifer's curious stare at my back, I focus on the waitress and comment, "I didn't realize I wasn't welcomed here anymore, Jenny."

Jenny Rae Duchene, 'JR' and the owner of this 'establishment', laughs with an unfeminine guffaw.  "It's some of the boys who have a problem with ya, not me.  I always treat paying customers right, eh?"

"That you do," I agree, but when she goes for a pair of menus, I shake my head and thumb in the direction of the lone teenager.  She frowns briefly, but then nods with visible curiosity of what 'Leon' has to do with an obvious runaway.  Jenny has a soft spot for kids, and more likely than not, she has already tried to convince the kid to go home.  My reputation will probably be damaged by helping out a kid, but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.

As we had already discussed vague plans in the car, I don't need to say anything to Seifer as we approach the booth, and before Riku knows what is happening, I take the seat in front of him and Seifer slides in next to the kid to block his way out.

Startled and jumpy, Riku looks back and forth between us, looking much like a terrified rabbit.  "Who... What do you want?"

"Your mother hired us to take you home," I say directly, an answer that is overheard by Jenny as she walks up with a coffee pot in hand.

"No wonder you're botherin' with a kid," she comments with relieved undertones.  "A son should be with his mother."

While the teen glares at the interfering woman, I accept the cup of deep black coffee she pours for me.  Seifer waves off his cup, but smooth-talks his way into an extra large piece of 'JR's famous blackberry pie'.  With Jenny near blushing as she retrieves the pie, I sip carefully at the deadly strong cup of coffee before returning my attention to the defeated kid.

"My mom thinks I'm in school," he says in denial.  "There's no way she knows I'm gone."

"A friend of yours was worried and called her, though I believe he assumed you were sick."

Groaning the name 'Sora', Riku pinches the bridge of his nose in an irritable fashion.

"So, you've got me curious, kid," Seifer begins while stealing a fry from the plate in front of Riku.  "Why the Hell are you running away in the first place?  You have a nice life back with your parents and sister.  Seems like a stupid move to leave that behind."

After a brief glare at the blond, Riku ignores him to ask me, "How much is my mom paying you?  I can double it for your silence."

"Not likely."

"I have money," he insists in a low tone.  "My father, my _real_ father sends me money my mom doesn't know about."

With a show of disinterest, I drink more of the diner's coffee, able to take almost a mouthful this time.

"How _much?_ " Riku demands with persistence.  "Five hundred?"  At Seifer's derisive snort, the kid increases, "A thousand, then?"  When I continue to say nothing, Riku offers, " _Two_ thousand?" and his left eye twitches to reveal that number is close to the full amount he has on hand.

I set down my cup and inform him, "We're taking you home."

Returning with Seifer's pie, Jenny scolds a firm, "Hey now," when the kid hits the table with the flat of his palm.  At least Riku has the sense to look contrite in front of the matron of this diner, but it doesn't last when she walks off to help other customers.  While green-blue eyes search for an exit strategy, Seifer digs into his piece of pie and takes a deep bite as if dessert was our original purpose for coming here.

His eyes brightening, Seifer declares, "Shit, this is pretty damn good.  Have you tried it before?"

"Seifer..." I breathe in a quiet scold that this isn't the time for his games.

"No, seriously, you have to try some," he insists while cutting into his piece, and then holds the loaded fork in my direction.  I look at the offered dessert, and with an eyebrow lifted in disbelief, I do nothing to accept the taste.  Seifer shrugs at my wordless refusal and takes the forkful for himself.  "You're missing out, Sherlock, and I hope it's not because you're watching your girlish figure or something stupid like that."

Deciding to take his word for it, I return my attention to Riku and notice that his anger has been replaced by something else.  Frustration and... worry, I suppose.  There isn't any fear, fortunately, but the worry in his eyes bothers me.  "Tell me why I shouldn't take you back, and maybe I'll consider it."

Surprise opens the kid's expression, something mirrored in Seifer's equally stunned state, but Riku's shock fades more quickly when he battles over what answer to give me.  The desire to lie is there, but when he glances at me in an assessing manner, he decides against the tactic that didn't have a good chance of success.  "It's personal," he finally declares, it probably saying more than he thinks.

"Personal," Seifer repeats with a chuckle.  "What do you think, Loire - did a girl tell him to fuck off, or did he stop having morning wood?"

When Riku doesn't react strongly either way, I think about the soda glass on his bookcase and the photo placed against it, the only noticeable photo in the room.  "Maybe we should ask his friend 'Sora'."

For a mere second, Riku's entire body goes taut in a fight-or-flight response to the suggestion, and though he manages to control himself and calm down, the damage has already been done.

Seifer scowls at the unspoken answer.  "You've got to be shitting me.  All of this crap is because you, what, had a fight with your friend?"  When Riku looks ready to argue, the blond adds more sharply, "Wait, don't tell me it's because you have feelings for this other kid?"

His mouth already parted with his previously thought-out argument, Riku sits with a dumbfounded look at the second theory he wasn't expecting, especially not from Seifer.  Honestly, people don't give him enough credit for seeing through bullshit, an ability that I don't find surprising given Seifer's mastery in the art of lying and speaking half-truths.

Seifer shows a disappointed look when glancing at me.  "You're right, 'Leon'.  He's an idiot teenager with more hormones than brains."

"Hey, it's not that stupid--"

With a bark of laughter, Seifer demands, "Don't be full of yourself, kid.  In your generation, being gay is practically a fad where claiming to have a 'gay friend' is like wearing some fashion accessory."  Pointing his fork in my direction, Seifer continues, "Meanwhile, this guy went home almost _every fucking day_ with a new bruise on his body, and he never backed down.  Hell, he was on the track team and _knew_ how to run, but never did.  And what does that say about you, huh?  You think you're _smart_ to run away like this?  Try again, you stupid fuck."

More confused than offended by the crude lecture, Riku warily looks at me and asks, "Is it... true?"

I sigh at the unexpected direction this meeting has taken.  "More or less, but you should know, Seifer doesn't understand as much as he thinks he does."

"I know enough," Seifer says defensively.  "I was there for some of the beatings, if you remember."

"But that isn't the issue."  When Seifer snorts at the argument and heatedly cuts another bite of blackberry pie, I wait until the right moment to ask him, "What if I told you that I loved you since middle school?"

His inhale of surprise lodges the mouthful of pie into an uncomfortable position, and after a series of mildly worrisome chokes, Seifer clears his airway enough that he thinks to drink something to clear it the rest of the way.  Unfortunately, he misjudges my coffee to be a good choice and ends up coughing even harsher than before.

"And that's the issue," I say sarcastically once his coughing dies down enough.

"Wha... How is you... and _me_... the issue here?"

"I was just making a point, Seifer," I state dryly, needing him to assume that my question was hypothetical.  "Sometimes, it's not what you are, but how people react that is more frightening."

With a pathetic look, Riku adjusts the position of his baseball cap.  "I don't want Sora to know... _especially_ if he's going to react like _that_."

"You don't have to tell him," I say with years of experience.

"Now wait a _fucking_ minute here!" Seifer demands, his voice still hoarse from nearly choking.  "First off, Loire, was that the truth about you... y'know... ... wanting me?"

Annoyed at his barely formed question, I ask him in reply, "Do I look that stupid?"

"No, not particularly," Seifer says while eyeing me critically, and just when I think he's about to call my bluff, he huffs irritably and turns his attention to Riku.  "As for you, you dumb shit, isn't that other kid your friend?  Obviously you care about him, and no matter how he may react, don't you owe him the truth?"

"Of course he deserves the truth," Riku agrees with a harsh glare, "and that's why I _can't face him anymore._ "

The teen's argument manages to quiet Seifer, but I'm not as surprised by the declaration.  "Riku," I coax until the kid looks at me.  "While this may be the easiest option for you, do you have any idea what your friend will think?  You're deserting him without a warning or explanation..."

"He'll get over it," Riku says too quickly, as if he has been convincing himself of just that in the last several hours.

"Do you really believe that?"

"... Sora is good at making friends wherever he goes.  And it's not like we see each other much since we're in different grades."

Watching him struggle, I tell the teen the one thing he doesn't want to hear: "He noticed you were missing within hours."

Riku grits his teeth at that reality and his eyes take on a different light.  Regret, maybe something more.

With that final sign, I slide out from the booth, and once standing, I inform the kid, "Whether you run or not, your feelings may never change.  But if you do run, your friend will suffer for it.  Is that truly the option that appeals the most to you?"

Not waiting for an answer, I move to the counter where Jenny has been watching us closely, but far enough away to not overhear anything inappropriate.  I pull two twenties from a money clip and place them on the counter as payment for the kid's meal, in addition to the coffee and pie.  The rest should remind her that I appreciate her discretion when it comes to telling others about today, but I'm not in the business of buying her silence.

I turn around and watch Seifer stand to the side while Riku pushes out from the booth.  The kid hides his face at first, but then removes his baseball cap and decides to meet my eyes squarely.

"I don't want Sora to hate me."

I smile faintly at his one desire, amazed how much it echoes my own.  "Then let's bring you home."

~ > < ~

Thirty minutes after that promise, I park at the far end of Oceanic Ave, not comfortable with the idea of parallel parking an unfamiliar vehicle that I need to return in one piece.  Despite the fair distance, I notice a figure waiting on the steps leading to the kid's townhouse, spikes of brown hair peaking out into view.  Figuring that our time is short, I reach into my jacket pocket and retrieve a business card to hand back to the kid.

"What's this for?" Riku asks with a suspicious glance at the card.

"I didn't have anyone to talk to when growing up," I explain dully and ignore the odd look from Seifer.  "Maybe you won't need to, but sometimes the option itself helps."

Riku hesitates before taking the card, but clutches it firmly.  With a muttered 'thanks', he exits the car and drags out his backpack in a rush.

Seifer and I watch from within the car as the teen strides purposefully toward his home, but eventually falters when the person on the stairway stands up and makes himself known.  As Riku slows to a halt, his spiky-haired friend moves from the stairs and gradually gains speed until running at the taller teen.  Riku is nearly knocked to his feet when the friend tackles him with a rough hug, and though cautious, Riku returns the hold with a single arm.  Loud words are spoken, but nothing that can be understood from here, not that they are meant for us anyway.  It'd be a nice story if things actually worked out between them.

"I never thought about it," Seifer comments while watching the teens, "but being gay must be really tough.  I mean, to love your best friend and all of that..."

"A best friend can be the opposite sex."

"Well, yeah, but you still have to find a guy who's also gay.  Figuring that out must be a bitch."

"It's no different than you wanting a woman who is already taken, or wanting a woman who has no interest in your flirting."

"Alright, then love sucks all around," Seifer says with a chuckle, "but I still think that I have a better chance at finding love than you."

Scoffing at his arrogance, I wish that I could explain to him that finding love isn't the hard part.  I found love over a decade ago when I was basically a child, but living in love... that's probably the challenge of life itself.

Never leaving the car, we continue to watch as Riku is dragged toward his home and pushed toward the front door by the small friend.  Before Riku can use his key or knock for entrance, the door bursts open to reveal his mother and young sister, the pair battling to give Riku the strongest hug.  Confident that the kid is in good hands, I start up the engine and pull the car out into the street, eventually passing the reunion activities without being noticed.

"Just to be curious," Seifer begins while glancing back at the family, "how much _are_ you charging the kid's family for finding him?"

"There's a two-hundred dollar consulting fee, and then seventy-five dollars an hour and related expenses."

After doing a quick tally, Seifer breathes a laugh at the number.  "Oh man, that kid was ready to give you two-thousand dollars, and your fee is under four-hundred?  He's going to kill you when he finds out."

"He needed to be home with his family," I offer as my explanation, maybe my excuse.

Seifer hums quietly at the statement.  "Seems important to you."

"Family is everything," I say while thinking that only family can love when others decide it's too much trouble, and only family will care while others actually believe in the masks that are shown during the worst of times.

"... Is that why your place feels like it does?"

I frown at the odd question.  "Like what?"

Seifer doesn't reply straight away, and in that time, he seems to change his mind.  "Nah, it's nothing important.  Just my typical nonsense."

I glance at the blond, curious what he has decided to hide from me after everything he has already shared.

Closing his eyes, Seifer adjusts the passenger seat so that it leans further back.  "I have to say, you're a good guy, Loire.  It might not be so bad letting you help me out."

Though pleased that his resistance is fading with every moment, I can't help but to wonder if I may be over my head with this project.  It has been less than three days and I've already done something incredibly stupid, like admit my feelings within the guise of a lie.  Considering the months it should take for Seifer to build up enough reserves to live on his own, I could be placing myself into quite a bit of trouble here.  I need to keep reminding myself that, although a wolf may appear docile, he will always be an animal of his own mind.  The moment I forget that, I'll leave myself exposed, and I can't endure that, not when it's Seifer.

One way or another, he'll eventually return to his own life without me, and then maybe I can learn to breathe again.


	4. Chapter 4

[Seifer]

I have gone through a lot of shit when it comes to my unwanted dreams.  I've seen a drunken father beat his own child against a tiled floor until the kid's skull cracked open and bits of brain slipped out.  I've seen a good girl accept a free drink at the wrong type of bar and watched as she was gang raped in a nearby hotel, never a virgin again.  And something that has been lingering in my mind as of late, I've witnessed a sadist repeatedly burn, electrocute, and strangle a ridiculously stubborn woman, a mother who refused to give her surrender in exchange for the blessing of death at the hands of her torturer.

To add to the pleasantry of those events, I was forced to view everything from the eyes of the victims, knowing their fears and their pain in that worst, and often times last, moment of their lives.

And yet, even with all of those dreams combined, nothing is more terrifying than when things go wrong and I end up in a place of pure white light.  All my life I have heard the cliché stories about near-death experiences in which people see a white light and are comforted by the presence of lost loved ones.  Apparently, those stories are either complete bullshit or I'm the unlucky one who doesn't get the whole 'I saw my dead grandmother and she said it wasn't my time' crap.  Instead, my visits to that place are like being in the middle of a desert made of burning white sand, surrounded by millions of people who all know that I'm trying to hide a bottle of ice-cold water in my pants.

Such is my fate tonight, and though I can't actually see anything beyond the glare of white, I feel the desperate gazes of the dead, all of them wishing for the chance to connect with the living world.  Some want to pass along private messages, others want to provide warnings of future disasters, and the remaining majority simply wants to remember how it feels to be alive.  None of them seem to understand that I'm only one man with a very fragile mind, but logic is rarely involved when it comes to mobs, living or dead.  They each have their 'important reason' to reach for me, and without physical bodies to block the way, I'm assaulted at all angles by demanding spirits and their overpowering emotions.

It really says something about my life when Heaven feels a lot like Hell.

"--eifer... _Seifer,_ wake _ **up**...!"_

The frantic call of my name somehow cuts through the swarm of spirits, and with that glimmer of hope, I find the strength to latch onto that living voice and let it drag me toward freedom and into blessed darkness.  Unfortunately, that comfort of darkness isn't meant to last as I eventually feel a bruising grip at my upper arm and an icy touch at my cheek.  With a sad amount of effort, I open my eyelids and stare at a blurry world that seems gray and full of shadows after witnessing the pure light of Heaven.

"Seifer," the voice of my savior breathes in relief, "Are you all right?"

Not ready to answer that question, I look around in hazy confusion until I realize that I'm not on the bed like I should be, but instead sitting on the floor of the closet with a pair of shoes digging into my ass.  Well shit, I haven't done the sleepwalk thing since high school and it was embarrassing enough to have my grandfather find me hiding in the closet and behind hanging clothes.  If I wasn't so fucked in the head right now, I'd probably punch Squall in the throat just to make myself feel a little less pathetic.

As if aware of my desperate plan, Squall shifts backward just enough for the hallway light to reveal his face, which impressively shows nothing of what I heard in his previous cries.  "I heard noises and found you here..."

Knowing full well that Squall could only have good intentions, I shake my head at his attempt to explain what he's doing in my room in the middle of the night.  That small movement, however, turns out to be a terrible idea and I choke on the vomit that suddenly flows up from my stomach.  Something must have been visible in my face since Squall acts quickly and grabs a nearby trash bin to shove in front of me.  Unfortunate for him, I'm not quite together enough for something like aim and a good portion of the vomit ends up on Squall instead of where it belongs.

"... Sorry..." I manage somewhere between the fourth and sixth heave.

Squall doesn't say anything, but rests a soothing hand against my back while patiently waiting for the episode to pass.  Once I empty everything from my stomach and then some, Squall removes his soiled shirt and offers it as something to wipe my face clean of sweat and flecks of vomit.  While I do that, he grabs the trash bin and walks to the bathroom, soon followed by the sound of a flushing toilet and running water.  When he comes back into the room, Squall sets the cleaned trash bin next to the bed and returns to squat in front of me.

"Are you okay to move?"

Not wanting to consider something that sounds rather daunting and fairly stupid at this moment, I stare forward while waiting for the rest of my nausea to pass.  With the brunet directly before me, my staring mostly involves focusing on the shirtless man, and gradually, I notice a few unexpected things.  While daily runs have kept the guy slender, Squall also has a surprising amount of muscle definition in his chest and upper arms, something he didn't have back in high school.  I suppose it makes sense given his trick the other night to knock out those horny fuckers, but man, I never connected that strength with the visible lines of muscle that he has been hiding beneath expensive clothes.

"Seifer," Squall says in a scolding tone, effectively interrupting my examination, "I'm not letting you stay in there, especially when your bed is a few steps away."

It would be so easy to pretend that the floor of the closet is more comfortable than it looks, but Squall isn't the type to be impressed by something as stupid as pride.  I raise my arm in a silent demand for his help, and with just one hand, Squall pulls me onto my feet.  My bum knee immediately stiffens due to my awkward seated position in the closet, but Squall seems to anticipate the issue and stands close to support my unsteady body.  Once I'm fairly certain that I won't fall face-first into the carpet, I take my first tentative step toward the bed, but Squall jerks me backward before I can get too far.

"Not that way," he says with a careful nudge in the other direction.

Confused, I blink a couple times to bring my vision into better focus, and looking at the floor, I realize the reason why Squall hadn't flipped on the light--the single floor lamp in the room had been knocked over and broken glass covered the ground in the exact spot where I was about to step.  With a muttered curse, I promise tiredly, "I'll buy a replacement..."

Squall scoffs at the offer.  "I don't give a damn about that.  I'm more worried about you."

I almost laugh at the brunet for saying something unnecessary for once--it'd be obvious to anyone that he gives a shit.  I seem to remember my grandfather leaving me wherever I lay after a bad dream, and here Squall is, sacrificing his sleep and shirt to help me out.  It's a little much when I think about it, and for probably the fourth time in as many days, I ask him, "Why are you going through so much trouble for me?"

An eyebrow lifted in disbelief, Squall looks up at me.  "You're asking that now?"

"You've never given me a real answer."

"In your opinion," Squall states defensively.

We reach the bed at that point, and with Squall taking the soiled shirt from my hand, I crawl on top of the mattress.  Seated on that mess of sheets, my body abruptly remembers how cold Squall keeps this place and I pull the covers up to my chest.  It's then I realize that something is missing, and as discretely as possible, I scan the sheets to look for a noticeable bump.  When I don't see one, I glance over the edge of the mattress.

"Looking for this?" Squall asks as he bends down and picks up Dog from where the stuffed toy had fallen under the bed.

"I've had a fucking bitch of a night, Loire, so don't mock me, alright?" I bite out, angry and ashamed at my childish desire to snatch Dog from his hold.

"I'm not mocking you," Squall argues softly while placing the purple dragon in my lap.  "I know it has the same protection charm you placed on my mother's shawl."

My eyes drift downward in continued embarrassment and I end up staring at the vomit staining Squall's sweat pants.  Damn, why is it that the more this guy helps me, the harder I lash out?  It doesn't seem all that fair to him, and yet he continues to bear my attacks without any real complaint.

I feel pale eyes studying me in a quiet moment before Squall asks, "May I ask what happened?"

"No... No, Loire, you can't ask.  Because if you ask, I might actually have to answer you, and do you really think I want to talk about whatever I saw?"

Squall says nothing beyond a soft hum of agreement, and with that, he turns and walks out of the bedroom to leave me alone.

Alone again... Fucking hell, I've spent years living by myself without anyone else to help me, but for some reason it feels so much more daunting to sit by myself when I know Loire is in the same condo, and yet technically out of reach.  I'm not in the right mindset to get back to sleep, but with my typical amount of intelligence, I chased away the one person who could possibly help me clear my head.  It makes me think about the handful of friends I made back in high school, the good ones who tried to stick with me after my injury in college and during my alcoholic days, but their patience couldn't last forever.  I ruined a good thing back then, and I can't help but wonder when I'll ruin this thing with Squall.  Given my track record, it feels inevitable.

Frustrated by tonight and my entire life, I bend forward to bury my face against Dog's long back and complain, "I'm such an idiot."

"I think that would be obvious."

Startled, I jerk up and find Squall standing at the doorway with a couple of glasses in his hands.  It seems like an impossible sight and my only thought is, "You... came back."

He tilts his head in confusion, but Squall doesn't make a verbal comment about my surprise when he pads inside.  "I thought you could use some ginger ale to help the nausea, or if you don't want that, I brought some water, too."

I readily accept the ginger ale, and after a small sip of the bubbly liquid, I breathe out a sigh of relief at washing out the taste of bile from my mouth.

Showing his almost smile, Squall waits for me finish a couple more mouthfuls before he says, "You've had a bad night.  Maybe I should call Ward in the morning and tell him that you can't come in."

I scoff at the well-meant suggestion.  "I know what you're trying to do, Loire, but it's a terrible idea.  Your uncle already thinks I'm a worthless bum.  Not showing up for the first day of work would only give him evidence to that fact."  When Squall doesn't appear convinced, I glance at the alarm clock and nearly laugh at the time.  "Shit, it's not even 5am.  I can easily get another five hours of sleep before I have to wake up, and that will be more than enough to keep me on my feet for the rest of the day."

"... Are you sure?"

"Trust me, Sherlock, I've done a lot more work on far less sleep and survived just fine."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Squall mutters under his breath, but eventually sighs in surrender.  "Fine, I won't talk to Ward, but I wish you wouldn't push yourself."

I can't stop a chuckle at his motherly tone.  "I think I'm a big boy capable of my own decisions."

After a small shake of his head to show he isn't impressed, Squall takes a step toward the doorway.  "Sleep well, Seifer.  I'll see you in the morning."

"Uh, wait, don't go just yet," I beg a little too desperately, unable to temper the sudden anxiety I feel at being left alone.  Squall, thankfully, doesn't seem to notice the difference and simply waits to hear what I have to say.  Figuring out what to say, however, is a trick in itself.  A few seconds pass, and when nothing else comes to mind, I'm forced to rely on the terrifying and childish truth.  "Listen, I had a pretty crappy dream and I'm not ready to try some sleep with that still on my mind.  Can't you stay and... I don't know, talk for a while?"

Squall blinks at the request.  "You want to... talk."

Once I hear it repeated in his voice, I almost groan at the stupidity of my suggestion.  Of all the things to make him stay, I asked Squall Loire to _talk_ with me.  While he isn't exactly averse to talking, the brunet only speaks when he has a purpose, not because it's a friendly thing to do.  It's like I suddenly forgot the few details I know about the dark-haired man.

Squall studies me for a long moment, and without anything visible in his expression, he takes a seat on the edge of the bed.  "Be honest, Seifer--is there something you need to tell me about your dream?"

I stare at the brunet until I realize that he thinks I need help deciphering my dream like I did the first night I was here.  "That's not why I want you to stay, and seriously, it's the last thing I feel like talking about.  If there was something useful in that dream, I swear that I would tell you all about it, but there's nothing to be done."

"You said that about your other dream," Squall prods in a careful manner, the man not wanting to insult me, but determined to prevent a person from needless suffering.  Fucking hero complex.

My hand tightens around Dog's body before I blurt out, "He's already dead, okay?  The boy I saw is _dead_ and I never even figured out his name."

Squall straightens at the announcement.  "Dead?  How?"

"Fuck if I know," I say with a slightly hysterical edge.  "It was the same damn thing I dreamed the other night and it was just as worthless.  The whole dream was like staring into an old TV with a bad reception: there was little more than static, and the stuff that did come through had the audio from a different station.  It made no sense the first night and tonight was no different, but while I was connected with that future, it suddenly became the present and I got tangled up with that dead kid's soul as it went to Heaven.  And I'll tell you right now, I don't fucking belong in Heaven.  I _don't_ \--"

A cold hand rests on top of mine, encouraging me to stop that stream of dangerous thought.  Back in control of my tongue, I suddenly realize that I've said a lot more than I intended, but not enough for Squall to actually understand what happened tonight.  I swallow thickly at the idea of Squall asking more questions about the entire experience, and while I want to refuse any explanation, it's becoming apparent that I'm not good at leaving any of his questions unanswered.

After a light squeeze of my hand, Squall pulls back and asks, "What did you want to talk about?"

Confused, I meet blue-gray eyes and simply stare at the brunet for his question that doesn't seem to have anything to do with my ranting or my unwanted vision.

"Didn't you want to talk about something other than your dream?"

After a few seconds, it seeps through that this is his attempt to make amends for pushing too hard, and while I probably should be angry at his interference, I'm too exhausted to blame Squall for something that is a part of his nature.  And really, it's my own damned fault to make the guy stay when he was perfectly prepared to drop the topic altogether and leave me alone.  At this point, I just want to forget about everything else that has happened tonight, and maybe have a few happy thoughts to focus on before going back to sleep.

Trying to think of a topic, I shift under the covers and lie down such that my head is propped up by folded arms.  I then glance at Dog resting against my leg, and with no better idea in mind, I suggest, "Tell me about your birthdays when you were a kid."

"My birthdays?"

"Birthdays are usually happy times, right?  And your dad seems like the type of guy to make a major deal out of it.  Did he ever make you dress like a cowboy for a western themed party?  Or better yet, a knight for medieval party?  I bet you would make a great knight."

Squall sighs at my overactive imagination.  "While my father would have probably loved that, I didn't have many friends back then.  Parties would have been pointless, so we did family trips instead.  The location was my choice."

"And let me guess--you weren't a Disneyland type of kid."

"That was Ellone's choice more than once for family trips.  It was... okay."

I snicker at his tone that suggests he was forced to partake in the 'Happiest Place on Earth' for the sake of his sister's enjoyment.  "You're too predictable, Sherlock.  But hey, I forgot about you having a sister.  She does the ghostwriting thing for your dad, right?"  When Squall nods in reply, I decide to pursue the topic a little further and see where it goes.  "So, what is she like?  Does she have your bubbly personality, or did she take after one of your parents?  Obviously she got the writing gene from Laguna, but maybe she's more like your mother?"

Squall frowns slightly at the conjectures.  "You know that Ellone is my adopted sister, right?"

Surprised by the information, I try to figure out why the guy would think I knew about such a thing.  The only possibility that vaguely comes to mind is that someone started a rumor back in high school about Squall and his sister, but whatever it was about, it was so ridiculous that I didn't bother giving it a second thought.  "Sorry, Loire, but I really don't remember hearing about your sister.  Was it something I should have remembered?"

Blue-gray eyes study me quietly before Squall shakes his head.  "No, I suppose not."

And by his tone, I'm almost positive that he assumed I had taken stock in some bullshit rumor about his family.  Wanting to know about his real sister and not the rumors I had probably heard at one point or another, I ask the brunet, "Why don't you tell me about her?"

"What would that help?" Squall says guardedly.

"Well, getting you to talk about birthdays wasn't going anywhere, and I still want to hear something good before I think about going back to sleep."

Squall hesitates, but after a convincing grin from me, he sighs and relents, "She's six years older than me, married, and has two kids."

"Okay, hold it right there," I interject within a laugh.  "I don't want a freaking classified ad.  Tell me some details, like if she lives nearby, if you see her and the family every other Tuesday, and Hell, if the kids even have _names_ , let alone a favorite ice cream flavor, a bad habit of picking their noses, or some fun shit like that."

The brunet pinches the bridge of his nose in irritation, but instead of refusing to indulge my curiosity, he begins, "Ellone lives on the other side of Garden where there are some good housing developments.  She has a nine-year-old daughter, Faith, and a seven-year-old son, Alec.  I haven't a clue about ice cream preference or bad habits, but they're both good kids.  Was there anything else?"

I chuckle at his determination to make this difficult.  "You didn't say how often you see them."

"I guess every month or so.  It depends on what is happening."

"Such as..."

Squall glares at me for the prodding, but still answers, "Whenever one of the kids has some performance, I try to go and watch."

"What, really?  You go and see a bunch of kids do a school play or T-ball game or something utterly domestic like that?"

Ducking his head slightly so that dark hair shields his face, Squall shrugs and says for a second time, "They're good kids."

While there isn't much to his answer in terms of words, it's easy to tell that the guy is completely devoted to his niece and nephew, something that reminds me of his statement the other day--'family is everything.'  Personally, I haven't felt that same amount of attachment to anyone beyond my mother, but it's not like I've had much of a family to depend on.  It almost makes me jealous of Squall, but I guess I respect the strength of his family too much to belittle it with my own pettiness.

Closing my eyes, I get comfortable with my head on the pillow and my arms bent over my head.  "Tell me about something you did with the kids.  Something fun."

"You look like you're about to fall asleep."

I agree with a pleased hum.  "And I want a bedtime story."

Squall snorts at the childish demand.  "I don't see how any of this is helping you."

And as he waits for some kind of rationale behind my games, I struggle with how I can explain that I'm not afraid to close my eyes and it's because he has humored me thus far.  Good intentions aside, Squall can never understand what it feels like to be terrified of sleep while desperately needing it at the same time, and frankly, I don't want him to understand that fear.  I only want him to keep talking, just for a few more minutes, but I can't think of any excuse to make that happen.

"Seifer, if you're going to--"

"Please don't stop," I interrupt while opening a single eye.  "Give me one story about you playing with your sister's family, and I won't ask anything else from you."  After a moment's thought, I add just in case, "Well, at least for tonight."

Squall studies me silently before looking away and purposefully staring at the carpet under his feet.  "Faith had her birthday a couple months ago.  It was a sleepover, but instead of the three girls Ellone thought were coming, nine showed up.  She called me in a panic, saying how Jonathan, her husband, and Alec were spending the night with Jonathan's parents, which left Ellone alone with a houseful of girls.  Ellone then mentioned that Faith wanted me to show her friends how to decorate cupcakes like I did for her and Alec a few weeks earlier.  Talk about a mistake..."

While Squall continues with the story that eventually leads to a kitchen full of cupcake-animals, I smile at the idea of the gay man running around with a horde of young girls, probably reaffirming his decision to stick with his own gender when it comes to his sanity.  But even as Squall downplays his ability to associate with children, I can't imagine that his niece would have invited him to her birthday party if she didn't actually want him around.  More so, it seems pretty clear to me that she wanted to show off her uncle to her friends, and I'll bet that Squall performed perfectly under the pressure.

With my eyes closed, it doesn't take long for me to drift under the influence of Squall's soft, steady voice.  I try to picture his niece and nephew, something that is probably pointless given the lack of blood relation, but it's still amusing to imagine the brunet with a pair of kids vying for his attention.  In my mind, the younger one would always win with a tearful demand, although Squall would probably make certain that the other one understood the burden and pride associated with being an older sibling.  Squall values family too high for him to let either child feel unwanted or left out.

But as I reach the point of near-sleep, those comforting images fade away as pieces of the vision return to haunt me.  With no understanding of how or why, I'm standing in the middle of a park that has been frozen in time, the families and joggers looking more like mannequins than living human beings.  It quickly becomes apparent that my viewpoint is from the boy who is already dead, something that is sick and wrong for many reasons, but I have no control over my nightmares.  Disturbingly, there is some amount of relief to know that this is only a bad dream that has no power to drag me into Heaven like the original vision had.

As if to mock my sense of security, a long shadow slowly appears from behind and all of the alarms in my head begin to scream at that new presence.  Unfortunately, the boy isn't the least bit concerned by the person's approach and turns around against my every wish.  Worse than the child-killer I was expecting, a mass of inky darkness in the shape of a human stands in the murderer's place.  It doesn't have a face or body that I can determine, but even without eyes, the thing stares right through the boy's shell and it isn't happy to find me there.  I'm interfering with its fun and it _hates_ it when others ruin carefully made plans.

I try to scream, but the boy's mouth isn't mine to control.

A soft shush sounds, and though I first think it's the shadow thing trying to quiet me, the world frozen in time reacts to the sound and slowly dissolves into soft gray.  The darkness roars silently at the occurrence and reaches out to grab me, but I'm saved as that nightmare is replaced by something else.  Or maybe 'nothing else' would be the proper term.

<Seifer...>

Instantly recognizing that voice, I turn around and discover that I'm no longer in the body of the dead boy, but I'm still trapped in the wrong body--my own body from when I was nine-years-old and first learned what it meant to hate my life.  Though confused, I decide to let the dream run its inevitable course and meet the stormy-eyed gaze of my visitor.

<You don't have to be afraid,> the dream version of Squall says soothingly as he kneels in front of me.  <I will always be there to protect you, even if you push me away.>

With that pledge, the brunet lifts a hand to brush his fingers across my forehead, and in an impossible trick, his touch wipes away the remnants of my terror.  Stunned, I can only stare at Squall and his sad smile which the real man has never shown me, at least not one that I've seen.  His tone, on the other hand, seems annoyingly familiar.

The moment doesn't last, however, when the vision of Squall begins to dissolve into the gray world that exists between dreams and honest sleep.  Not wanting to be alone, I reach out for Squall even when I know it's pointless.  My small hand grabs his shirt before he fades away, but my voice doesn't sound when I try to beg for him to stay.  The remaining portion of his face smiles with fondness, and as Squall leans in close, the rest of him falls apart as if caught in a breeze.  Even so, I feel the press of unseen lips against my temple, the touch encouraging me to close my eyes.

Everything begins to slip away, leaving a final wish from Squall--<If you dream tonight, dream something good.>

His voice is the last thing to reach me before I slip into a true sleep without fear and without ghosts... And for me, that is the only version of Heaven I desire.

* * *

The air heavy with steam from my long shower, I wipe the mirror free of obstructing condensation and study my reflection in mild awe of the difference a few days can make.  There are still circles under my eyes, but they noticeably lack the dark coloring from a week ago.  I have a feeling that my face doesn't quite remember what 'normal' is after years of interrupted and shallow sleep, but it's getting there.  Altogether, I look more like myself than I have since my brief stint in college, and while there are still shadows in my eyes, they don't particularly frighten me anymore.

For the first time in years my soul feels reenergized and strong enough to fight a new day, which is quite the surprise after the disaster of last night.

Turning away from my reflection, I dress in new clothes suited for my first day of work, the outfit primarily consisting of a white collared shirt and a pair of black jeans that are a touch too loose.  Since our shopping trip, I have developed the suspicion that Squall has a master plan to get me back to my football-weight, which can't end well given my bum knee and general inability to train like I used to.  To prevent a fat gut and possible man boobs, I persuaded Squall the other day to let me make my own breakfasts, thereby letting the brunet get extra sleep in the mornings and, more importantly, replacing his pancakes and loaded omelets with some cereal and whatever fruit is lying around.

After the minute it takes to dress, I'm impressed to discover that the mirror had fogged up once again.  I may have overdone it this morning, but man, I've missed the luxury of boiling hot showers.  I wipe the mirror clean a second time and then study my reflection while raking my fingers back through still damp hair.  Though several bits refuse to fall into the style I prefer, I don't bother fussing over it.  Several years ago, I would have applied various hair products to get the right look, but I gave up on that crap when my spending budget got too tight.  Hell, I gave up a lot of things while living on my own, and because of that, I have a different sense of what matters in this world.  A perfect hairstyle simply doesn't rank up there with a good job and a warm home, no matter what my teenage-self believed.

I take one last minute to adjust my collar and tuck the ends of the shirt into my jeans before I finally leave the humid warmth of the bathroom.  Stepping into the main area of the condo, I'm somewhat surprised, though mostly annoyed to find Squall seated at his desk and drowsily staring at his laptop.  Since moving in with the brunet, I learned the unexpected tidbit that Squall isn't the early bird that I always imagined.  Instead, his sleep schedule rotates around the demands of his private investigator business, which usually puts the brunet in his bed until at least noon.  This morning, however, Squall is up relatively early and I know only one reason why he'd bother to crawl out of bed.

"You didn't have to get up," I comment from behind him.  "It's not like you need to see me off to school or some shit like that."

Squall grunts without looking away from the laptop screen, apparently unconcerned about how much sleep he has gotten.  While I can't see much beyond the glare of the screen, I notice a chart of numbers and figure that Squall still plays with stocks, maybe earning enough money to buy his uncle another diner or something.

"So hey, about last night," I begin rather hesitantly, but before I can start into the speech that I had rehearsed during my shower, Squall turns to face me and his pale eyes cause me to forget everything I had wanted to say.  Unable to think of anything better, I make the basic apology, "I'm sorry... for waking you up and all of that.  I swear it won't happen again."

Arching an eyebrow in disbelief, Squall asks, "Can you control your visions to the point of keeping that promise?"

I wince at the unfortunate observation.  "I kind of meant that I wouldn't wake you again, not that I could stop the dreams.  I've handled plenty of nightmares by my lonesome in the past, and I can keep doing so without your help.  That's not to say last night wasn't appreciated, but I won't bother you like that again.  It's the best promise I can make."

Stormy eyes seem to look right through me at the claim, but instead of Squall calling my bluff, he simply comments, "It's okay to ask for help, Seifer.  I would never hold that against you."

I stare at the dark-haired man and dumbly realize that for everything that has changed about me, the core of my personality is still the same as the idiot I was as a teenager.  I want to be revered and praised for my strength, and while I achieved that standing for a short while as a quarterback, those few years only intensified my need to be respected and never pitied.  That is probably the reason I drove my friends away, sickened at the disappointment I saw in their eyes whether it was actually there or not.  And now Squall has the nerve to tell me that it doesn't matter if I ask for help, that it won't make me any less of a man in his opinion... and God help me, I wish I could believe him.

Unable to explain any of that, I shift my eyes away from the brunet and use the excuse of finding my shoes to avoid the issue.

Though he probably knows exactly what I'm doing, Squall lets me get away with the escape and returns to his work.

Locating my sneakers near the front door, I grab them and take a seat on the couch to slip them on.  "So, any last tips about how to handle your uncle before I take a stroll into the lions' den?"

Squall shrugs.  "Work hard and stick with the truth.  Ward will respect you for that."

I scoff at his way of making the truth sound like a simple thing.  "You know that I can't tell the old man about my visions and the like.  He'd think I'm a lunatic or a scam artist, and then he'd lecture you for trusting a guy like me."

"You don't have to share your personal business, but don't try to lie.  Ward was a trained interrogator--he'll know."

I blink at the worrisome piece of information.  "And you couldn't have mentioned this sooner?"

"Would it have changed anything?"

"That's not the point, Loire," I grumble, but I don't attempt an argument further than that.  If Squall doesn't already recognize how dangerous it is for me to work side-by-side with a fucking human lie detector, then there's nothing I can say that would change the situation.  "Well, I should get going.  I don't want to be late for my first day with Mr. Good Cop/Bad Cop and be forced to confess to a crime I didn't commit."

Ignoring my sarcasm, Squall disconnects a cell phone from its charger and holds it in my direction.  "Don't forget this.  I want you to call me if you need anything."

I take the offered cell phone, albeit reluctantly.  It's a prepaid phone with only Squall's cell number stored in the database, and while I could complain that I'm not a child who needs a way to call 'mommy', I know that carrying the thing isn't the worst idea in the world.  Frankly, my luck has been on the good side lately, which can only mean that I'm due for a spectacular and potentially painful event to correct the balance.

Slipping the phone into my back pocket, I grab my coat from the rack next to the front door and slip on the covering that is heavier than it looks.  "Well, I'm out of here.  Try not to have too much fun without me."

Squall hums distractedly, already lost in his work and forgetting all about me.

Opening the door, I shiver at the icy weather and second guess my decision to walk to the diner, but it's not like I'd be any warmer on the back of Squall's motorcycle.  I quickly button my jacket while stepping outside, and after closing the door behind me, I sigh at the troubles with returning to the work force.  It's somewhat annoying to think about Squall enjoying a lazy morning with no solid responsibilities for the day, but he has earned his lifestyle unlike some other bums out there, so I can't really fault him for that.  Envy him, yes, but not fault him.

"What the _fuck_ do ya think yer _doin'?_ "

I start at the unexpected voice, and when I look over to find my bastard father blocking the way down the stairs, I realize that it has been over three days since I've had to deal with his presence.  It has been years since the prick has left me alone for longer than a day, which of course makes me curious about his absence.  While my punch probably threw him off balance, I can't imagine it keeping him away from his daily taunts.

"Why're ya still with that diseased faggot, _boy?_   I _thought_ I told ya to leave this place before that queer could infect ya."

"And _I_ thought I told _you_ that you don't control me," I retort in controlled anger, and with no time to waste on the fucker, I move for the stairs despite the need to walk through the phantom.  While not impossible, it's not a pleasant experience, which is why I usually go out of my way to avoid stepping through any ghost, let alone my father's contaminated spirit.  The greater connection with the prick exposes me to his warped emotions, and though I've done it before, it's surprisingly worse this time.  The sheer intensity of his hate almost makes me lose my footing, but I manage to grab the railing and steady myself before walking down the stairs.

"Ya dumb fuck, don't ya know what they _do?_ " he insists while following me.  "They have worms that burrow into yer brain, makin' yer dick hard when those faggots want to be fucked.  They make ya into a pet cock, trained to take a leash."

"I think you've mentioned that before," I comment drearily, already missing the few days of peace that I didn't properly savor.

"I _saw_ him, boy.  I saw him try to put the worms in yer head when ya slept."

Curious despite myself, I glance over my shoulder and ask, "What the hell are you ranting about?"

"Last night, he put his cock-suckin' lips at yer head and tried to put the worms in yer brain.  He's _tryin_ ' to infect ya, just like I warned ya."

Vague memories of my dream immediately come to mind with Squall's soothing touch and words, as well as his parting kiss... And I laugh at the thought that any of it was remotely real.  "I don't know what you saw, but Loire has better taste than that.  He's more likely to buy a high-priced escort before wasting his time on a homeless ass like me."

The bastard growls at my dismissal of his fears.  "Don't mock me, boy.  I know what I know and that queer is out to destroy ya."

While I continue to chuckle at the idea of Squall mooning over me, I decide that it's interesting how this prick didn't think to invade my sleep or ruin my morning with these same warnings.  He usually isn't that reserved at speaking his mind, which brings me back to the mystery of my three days without his interfering presence.  The first day may have been attributed to the punch that made him run, but I can't imagine it keeping him away for the whole weekend.  There must be another reason behind his rare absence, and damn it, I feel like the answer is just out of reach.

"Heed my warnin', ya dumbshit - leave his lair before yer lost for good."

At his repeated demand for me to leave Squall's place, a sudden theory comes to mind that seems unlikely, but looking back at the ghost, I notice the twist of frustration to his sneer.  "Well, fuck me stupid, you can't get past the door, can you?"

The prick flinches at the question, but insists, "I can get to ya just fine, don't ya worry."

Some doubt enters my mind at that reality, but then a spark of insight comes to mind--"You may have been able to sneak in at the beginning, but that was several days ago, _before_ you tried to attack Squall."

The phantom immediately stiffens at my theory, a reaction that makes me smirk in sadistic pleasure.  My mother once compared a 'true home' to a beloved family dog--it's friendly and perfectly harmless most of the time, but the moment someone attacks one of its masters, the home will bare its teeth and attack with everything it has.  More than likely, my bastard father never saw it coming and I'll bet he didn't appreciate the experience.

"I _saw_ that queer put his filthy hands on you," the ghost reminds with a defensive edge to his words.

"And what, you think that I don't know how souls have a way of seeing events without being there?  Nah, if you could enter Loire's place, you would have made your presence known long before now.  You would have done _something_ if Loire actually touched me like you say he did."

His lips tighten into a thin line of displeasure, a sight that nearly makes me laugh in victory.

"Did it surprise you when his 'home' rejected you?  Did it hurt you in a way you won't forget?" I ask a bit too eagerly, wanting the spirit to suffer for every slur he has used against Squall.  "Did it make you run away like a little girl?  'Cause I think I heard your squeals of pain the other day."

"Don't think yer free of me just 'cause some tutti-frutti house raised its hackles," the ghost growls in a low tone.  "I can go wherever I want, whenever I want, and don't ya forget it."

I grin at his pointless threat.  "Damn, I shouldn't be surprised about this, but Loire was right about you--you're a fucking coward who doesn't know what to do when someone fights back.  Is that what my mom did to earn your obsession?  Did she make you feel like so much less of a man in this world that you decided to attack her when she couldn't hurt you back?"

"That whore _liked_ what she got," the bastard snarls, but the comment doesn't have the same effect that it usually does.  For too long I have been comparing the ghost to something of a demon, but now I see him for the boogeyman he is--terrified of the light and holding no real strength beyond the power I stupidly give him.  Perhaps sensing my changed attitude, the phantom lashes out with his hand piercing my chest and his tainted energy twists around my heart.  "Don't forget, _boy_ , that it's my blood in yer veins."

Fighting the instinct to retreat from his touch, I meet his soulless eyes and retort, "It may be your blood, but it's my mother's heart and she'll never let you have me."

Infuriated, the spirit jerks his hand away, but he apparently has nothing to say in argument since he simply vanishes into a faint wisp of energy that slinks away to wherever ghosts go when they aren't harassing me.

Left blessedly alone, I grab the front of my jacket and swallow hard against the desire to puke or do something more drastic to remove the taint left by the touch of my bastard father.  And yet, despite that disgust, I manage to smile at the sweet taste of victory against the man who has tormented me since I was child.  God, more than anything, I want to run back upstairs and tell Squall every stupid detail, partly because it was his advice that contributed to my father's retreat, but mostly because he's the only person who would believe me.

Unfortunately, I still have my first day of work to consider, and really, I can already picture Squall's reaction--an almost smile with a vague 'I told you so' curl before he would offer me a ride to the diner.  It would be an anticlimactic reaction that would kill my good mood and I would rather savor the buzz for as long as it may last, probably until I break my first dish of the day.

Adjusting my coat, I take a deep breath of winter air and look up at the clear sky.  Damn, maybe today will be a better day than I thought.

~ > < ~

My first impression when entering the diner is that Squall must have had some influence in the design of the place.  The overall flavor of the place still screams 'diner' with the open counter, bar stools, and padded booths, but the color scheme of shiny metal, walls painted deep red, and wood table tops creates a warm atmosphere that manages to tone down the hooky feel of most diners.  I wouldn't exactly call it Ward's style, but judging by the collection of patrons from white-collar workers down to a handful of college students, it apparently works for a variety of customers and that is the dream of most restaurant owners.

"Good to see you know how to read a clock."

At the insult, I turn with a retort in mind, but I'm immediately reminded of the monstrous stature of Squall's uncle.  Dressed in a white t-shirt, dark pants, and a black apron, Ward carries a tray piled with dirty dishes at his shoulder and makes it appear like the load weighs next to nothing.  As of two seconds ago, I had held the vague hope that my memory had exaggerated his size given the stress of the day we met, but I was obviously wrong and now the ogre has the upper hand.  Well, shit, I suppose that it's probably better if I keep my mouth shut--it has been the cause of me being fired on more than one occasion and I really need this job.

His pale eyes glittering beneath a black bandana, Ward grins at my wordless state.  "I have to say, you look like a different man compared to last week.  Have you enjoyed your time in my godson's care?"

I debate the actual intent of his question, and while I can't quite decide if he's mocking my situation, testing my limits, or maybe even honestly questioning my welfare, I provide the same answer I would give two of those three situations--"I can't complain.  With the way Loire has watched over me, I can tell that he'll make a great mother some day."

The ogre's expression goes blank for a fraction of a terrifying second, but before I have the instinct to duck and run, the man chuckles with a deep rumble.  "Hate to break it to you, son, but you aren't the first to compare him to an overprotective mother."  Adjusting his hold on the tray, Ward steps around me and makes certain to get in his customary bump of the shoulder.  "Let's get you to the back and figure out what to do with you.  It's too busy to start training you now, but I'm certain we can find something to keep you out of the way."

The vague threat to his voice makes me think that I'm about to spend the rest of the day cleaning toilets, but I don't dare speak out against the treatment.  A job is a job and I know that I'm pretty damn lucky to have this one.

The 'back' consists of the kitchen area to the left, and in the other direction, a general area with what looks like a small locker setup, a desk with a simple computer, and a tall shelf maxed out with boxes for storage.  Ward moves to a large sink to drop off his tray of dishes, and after stretching his thick neck with a twist and a loud crack, he turns to the kitchen and the pair of cooks working hard on their orders.

"Zone, Watts, this is the new guy I warned you about," Ward announces with a thumb jammed my direction.  "Zone, I'm leaving the basics to you about hours, expectations, and whatever else pops into your head.  Watts, don't say anything unnecessary.  After that, you both can figure out something for him to do until I have the time to deal with him.  Got it?"

"Aye, Sergeant!" they say in unison as one of them grins broadly and the other lifts a spatula in a type of salute.

Ward grumbles something under his breath at the response, but turns and leaves without a clear declaration of what has him bothered.

"So, you're Seifer Almasy," comments the one with the spatula.

"I take it that the old man has been complaining about me," I say in response while eyeing the speaker.  Somewhere in his thirties, the man has an athletic look of a guy who goes to the gym, but doesn't necessarily use those muscles for anything important.  He wears an old baseball cap with the bill to the back and a black chef-style shirt with rolled-up sleeves, but the casual look contrasts his serious expression.  By sight alone, he doesn't seem all that impressive, but even as he returns the glance over to figure me out, the guy continues his fast-paced task of finishing a line of orders without missing a beat.

"Complaining would be an understatement," he eventually comments in a dry tone.  "By the way, I'm Zone and the kid behind me is Watts."

The second cook waves with a pair of metal tongs before portioning out steak fries onto a series of plates.  Watts looks about my same age, maybe a couple years younger, and at least a decade younger than Zone.  Dressed similarly to the older cook, Watts wears a dark bandana instead of a baseball cap to cover his hair, a loose fitting pair of jeans, and the same chef-style shirt that is a couple sizes too large.  Without any noticeable communication between the two, Zone grabs the plates that are half-filled with fries, tosses on the burgers he had been preparing, and then shoves the plates onto the pickup area beneath heating lamps; meanwhile, Watts collects a handful of new orders to fill and rambles off the necessary information.

It's somewhere between an order of a well-done bacon burger and a basket of chicken fingers that Zone points out, "If you're staying, you can hang your coat on the hooks behind you."

Given my walk to the diner and the biting cold, the heat of the kitchen was a welcomed change, but with the reminder, I realize that I must look a little odd standing around in my coat.  I walk to the back wall and maneuver the collection of jackets and other coverings to find a spot to safely hang my coat.  Returning to the kitchen, I look at the sink topped off with dishes, and with nothing better to do, I start scraping off the remaining food into a bin conveniently labeled 'Food Only'.

"Hey, you don't need to do that," Watts speaks out with a frown.  "The idiot busboy is late _again_ today and he should have to clean up that mess.  Well, if Sarge doesn't fire him first."

I shrug at the claim that I should stand back and wait for someone else to handle the simple task.  "What else am I going to do?  And it's not like I haven't done this part of the job before.  I've worked in couple chain restaurants and they go through a lot more dishes than this load."

Watts straightens at the information.  "Sarge didn't mention that you've done this shit before.  Well, damn, then working here should be a no-brainer for you.  I don't know why he was so worried about bringing you on."

Zone snorts and reminds the younger cook, "It's because he doesn't like having to associate with one of Squall's flings."

Swallowing back the desire to make a creative curse, I argue with forced composure, "I'm not sleeping with Loire and the old man knows it.  Loire and I knew each other back in high school and he's helping me through a rough patch, and that's _it_ , no matter what gossip Ward is spreading around."

Both Zone and Watts turn their heads and focus on me with silent intensity, the sizzle of grilling food going untouched.

"... What?" I ask, trying not to fidget under the dual gaze.

After a shared glance, they return to their work and Watts supplies, "Sorry, man, but you're Squall's type to the letter.  Add in the fact that you're living with the guy, you don't have much of a case."

I stare at the cook for the highly unexpected comment.  "And how the fuck do you know about Squall's type?" I ask, trying to not focus on the apparent fact that I have something to do with the brunet's taste in men.

"Ward complains about more things than just you," Zone replies sardonically.

Watts laughs in agreement.  "Hey, do you remember that one guy with the dragon tattoo?  I _still_ can't believe that the fucker had the nerve to confront Ward and demand to know who else Squall was sleeping with.  It's a good thing the walls were already red--it would've sucked to deal with the bloodstains."

Zone hums at the reminder.  "He was an idiot, but at least he was better than that kid who lied about his age and became a stalker when Squall figured it out."

"Ha, you're just bitter about Squall breaking that bench out front when he threw the kid against it.  Everyone knows you liked eating out there."

When Zone huffs in annoyance, I shake my head while trying to wrap my head around the stream of unsolicited information.  "So... I take it that everyone here knows about Loire?"

"What, that he's gay?" Watts asks in a blunt fashion that I'm starting to sense is his style.  "Yeah, I guess so, but it's not like it matters.  This place exists because Squall put his money into it, and Sarge makes certain everyone knows that."  Turning to face me, he frowns and prods, "But hey, if you're so worried about people getting the wrong idea about you and Squall, why don't you stay with some other friend?"

Not wanting to answer with the pathetic truth of my situation, I smirk and tell the cook, "I never said that Loire was my friend."

Watts scowls at my non-reply and looks ready to complain about it not making much sense, but Zone jams an elbow into the young cook's side and startles him back to work.  After making certain Watts returns to his duties, Zone shifts his attention to me.  "If we're done with that, Ward wanted me to give you the rundown of how this place works."

"I'm all ears," I say while tossing a heavy load into the dishwasher.

As Zone starts to ramble off things I've heard many times before (don't be late, get your shift covered if you can't come in, etc, etc), my thoughts drift a little and I wonder what Squall is up to while I'm stuck doing dishes.  Knowing some of his habits by now, I'll bet the guy is still in front of his computer, though probably researching one of his many open cases.  Some people think he has magical abilities to find people, but it's really nothing more than keen observation skills along with a heavy dose of patience.  He's always looking, even when everyone else has given up... and that's how he found me, as well as the other lost souls he has located throughout the years.  The difference, however, is that those lost souls had a home to return to and loved ones to hold them tight, whereas I have nothing left.  If I actually let myself think about it, it was pointless for Squall to look for me and I still don't understand why he went through that effort, but he did, and somehow, I owe him for that.

I owe him for something I don't even understand and that's what our relationship has always been and what it probably always will be: confusing as fuck and completely out of reach.  To make things more annoying, I get the feeling that Squall knows exactly why things are so difficult between us, but he isn't going to tell me shit--not that it's anything new.

"By the way," Zone says after detailing the few holidays observed by the diner, "We should probably warn you that Ward is hard on the new hires."

"No surprise there.  I've been expecting it since the old man agreed to give me a job."

Watts snickers.  "Nah, man, he's always tough on the new guys, but he doesn't like you to begin with.  I think he's been making plans to make your life a living Hell, too.  It's going to be _epic_."

"Well, fuck..." I mutter under my breath as I continue working on the dishes.  I've dealt with bastard foremen before, so it's nothing new to be insulted for my uselessness, but I haven't depended on someone else for a job before.  Making Squall look bad isn't an option, which means I need to keep my head down and get the job done without saying something stupid, no matter what Ward may do to piss me off.

So much for this being a good day.

~ > < ~

Letting the glass door swing shut behind me, I shove my hands into the pockets of my long coat and huddle as best I can into the warm material.  The sun is long gone, slipping behind tall mountains hours ago, and I curse under my steaming breath at the cold weather and the promise of global warming that has yet to materialize.  Almost nine o'clock, it has been a long ass day with little reprieve from Ward and his running commentary of what I was doing wrong.  I particularly enjoyed the ten minute lecture on how to properly tie an apron such that the thing won't slip off, snag on something, or strangle a customer.  Got to focus on the important stuff, I suppose.

And joy of joys, I get to return tomorrow with a skip to my step and a sparkle to my smile, or some bullshit like that.

After a deep sigh into my coat, I start the long walk back to Squall's place, but before I get further than ten steps, a soft chuckle makes me stop and turn around once I recognize the rare sound.  Completely unnoticed by me, Squall leans against his parked motorcycle with his arms crossed and his pale eyes shining from the lights of the diner.  The bastard looks wholly comfortable despite the icy cold and my only hope is that he suffers during the summer months.

"Here to check up on me, Loire?  Because you're a little late for that."

With a slight shake of his head, Squall says, "I thought I'd offer you a ride home.  Ward mentioned that you were favoring your leg a bit."

"What the-- When did you talk to the old man?  I didn't see you inside."

Squall smirks, but refrains to mention how I didn't notice him standing right in front of me only seconds ago.  "I was doing some research downtown.  When I finished, I called Ward for his opinion about whether or not you could walk back by yourself."

"And _of course_ he said that I needed all of the help I could get, right?"  Even though Squall looks about to respond, I don't give him the chance.  "Y'know, that guy has been on my case all _fucking_ day long.  First with acting all shocked that I showed up, then with critiquing my apron tying skills, then with complaining about my handwriting being, _apparently_ , worse than what a left-handed chicken can do, and _then_ he had the nerve to _watch_ me clean the bathrooms.  _Seriously_ , how many ways can you clean a _fucking toilet?_   I'm almost surprised that he didn't pull a toothbrush out of his ass for me to use!"

After waiting a moment to confirm that I'm done, Squall says calmly, "Actually, Ward told me that he was impressed that you stuck around today."

" _Impressed?_ " I repeat with a bark of laughter.  "It sure didn't look that way to me."

"Maybe, but Ward wanted to see for himself that you grew out of the hot temper you had from your quarterback days."

"Then, what, today was some kind of fucked up test to figure out when I'll snap and punch a customer for changing their order?" I demand, though in the back of my head, I know that I was close to lashing out at the old man.  If Squall wasn't involved, I would have given up and readily accepted being fired, but I didn't want to be the tarnish on Squall's shiny armor.

"That, and he still doesn't like you."

The dry tone does nothing to alleviate my concern and everything to bring about a headache that has been threatening to develop since earlier this afternoon.  "I've heard that a lot today, and just so you know, it's completely your fault.  The old man still thinks you got me this job because I'm banging you."

With a shrug, Squall maintains, "I've already told him the truth, but I can't force him to believe it.  Give him a few weeks and he'll sort everything out."

"A few more weeks of _this_ ," I groan in frustration.  "What an absolutely joyful thought."

Stormy eyes glitter with sadistic amusement, but without vocalizing that humor, Squall pushes up from his motorcycle.  "Do you want a ride or not?  I have somewhere to be."

"Hey, I didn't ask you to pick me up, so don't blame me if you're late.  And for your information, it's too freaking cold to ride around on that bike.  I can't believe how bits of you haven't already fallen off."

Squall dangles a set of keys from a gloved finger.  "Ward told me to use his spare car.  He doesn't want you to have any excuse, sickness or otherwise, to miss a day of work.  I think he mentioned something about the real work starting tomorrow."

"If you wanted me to jump off a bridge, Loire, there are kinder ways to suggest it," I complain, but I have to admit that the idea of a heated car sounds far more appealing than the long walk to Squall's place.  Somehow sensing that thought, Squall steps past me and walks toward the alleyway where Ward parks his massive truck, as well as a spare car that is used for the rare delivery to loyal customers.  Eyeing the car I recognize from when we brought that runaway home, I try to offer, "Listen, if taking me back to your place is going to make you late, I really don't mind walking.  Hell, it's not like I wasn't already prepared to make the trip."

"Get in the car, Seifer," Squall says before opening the driver-side door and sliding inside, leaving the argument at that.

I settle into the passenger seat just after Squall starts the car, and without wasting time, he pulls out into the street.  Even though the car is far warmer than what the back of Squall's motorcycle would be like, the vehicle has been sitting outside all day and it's going to take several minutes for the thing to warm up enough for the heater to work.  Walking wouldn't have been much better, but at least I would have been moving and not sitting still on a cold seat.

Freezing and needing a distraction, I decide to ask the brunet, "So, where are you rushing off to tonight?"

Squall doesn't reply right away, as if it was an answer that needed consideration.  "I've been learning martial arts for a while now.  I train every Monday night."

"Wow, no shit?" I say in surprise, not really expecting that from the serious man.  However, once I take the moment to think about it, the revelation helps to clear up a different mystery.  "So _that's_ how you were able to throw those bastards to the ground the other night.  I thought it was weird how you handled them that easily, but if you're a black belt or some shit like that, it's no wonder they didn't see it coming."

Squall doesn't add to my insight, which makes me assume that he does have a black belt in whatever martial arts he has been learning.  If not, the overly honest man would have corrected me like he always does.

"Damn, Sherlock, I have to say I'm impressed.  I didn't realize you had an interest in martial arts."

"I didn't," Squall admits, "but it has been useful in my line of work."

"I can imagine.  But hey, why learn martial arts instead of doing something more obvious like, oh, buying a big ass gun?"

Squall shrugs dismissively at the suggestion.  "The idea of a gun was appealing, but if I ever used it like I wanted to, it'd be one mess after another with the police.  With martial arts, I have more flexibility to do whatever I need to do."

I glance at the dark-haired man for his explanation, his face mostly in the shadows given the angle of street lights.  On some level, I probably always figured that Squall could be a dangerous force if he ever put his mind to it, but I don't think I ever expected to witness that side of him.  Of course, I saw a glimmer of darkness in the man when he attacked those two brutes, but I had chalked up the incident to adrenaline and put it out of my mind.  Now I can't ignore it, and yet, instead of being afraid, I'm intrigued by the suggestion that Squall isn't the white knight everyone else sees.

"Can I watch you practice?"

Squall half-turns to glare at me, looking more suspicious than annoyed.  "Why?"

"Can you blame me for wanting to see you in action?  And before you try to say I've already seen you use martial arts, I was preoccupied the last time and couldn't appreciate how cool you looked."

Returning his attention to the street, Squall frowns in harsh thought before saying, "There could be a complication with that."

I chuckle at his serious tone.  "Come on, Loire, I promise to be a good boy and not ruin your lesson.  I just want to watch."

"That isn't the issue," he says within a sigh, and after another moment of thought, he asks, "Do you remember Zell Dincht?"

"Dincht?  Dincht... It doesn't sound-- Oh wait, is that the punk who would run around with his hair styled like a chicken sitting on his head?"

Squall snorts at the description.  "I forgot how you liked to call him 'Chicken Wuss'."

"Shit, I haven't heard his name since high school.  I don't remember much about him, but I seem to recall wanting to punch the kid just to make him fucking stand still for once."  I smile at the old memories from the best years of my life.  "So hey, what does the Chicken have to do with your courses?  Is he another student or something?"

"He's my instructor," Squall explains, and with a side glance in my direction, he adds, "and he's married to Fuujin."

My expression falls at the information.  "Fuujin?  As in _my_ Fuujin?"  Although the brunet nods, I can't accept his reply.  "You're saying that my beautiful, genius of a girl willingly married that poultry-obsessed _moron_ of a human being?"

"Almost four years ago."

"But how?  I mean... _how?_ "

The corner of his mouth twitching to resist a smile, Squall explains, "During high school, Zell trained at the dojo owned by Fuujin's father, and after graduation, he became a fulltime instructor.  Zell and Fuujin saw each other almost every day, and eventually, they saw something in each other."

Dumbfounded, I slump into my seat and stare out the front window without really seeing anything.  In my mind, I can easily imagine the white-haired girl who had a lovely face, a petite body, and the meanest kick I have ever known.  We met in high school when a group of idiots were taunting her for the eye patch she wears.  She looked small and helpless in front of those overgrown sophomores, but before I could play the hero, Fuujin kicked one guy in the nuts and punched the other in the stomach.  The other idiots bolted when she demanded for 'NEXT'.  I couldn't help laughing at their retreat, which of course turned her one-eyed glare to me, but I quickly had her blushing when I asked her on a date.  A dinner and a movie later, we somehow became friends instead of something more, but I love her all the same.

Unfortunately, that didn't stop me from calling her a nagging bitch the last time we saw each other.  I'm certain the alcohol made me say other things, but that's the only thing I remember.  That, and her expression when I said it.

"I'll take you home," Squall offers, giving me an escape from the situation.

It's so damn tempting to take the easy way out, but I can't ignore this suggestion from Fate.  "Nah, I owe Fuujin an apology and probably some money.  It'd be nice if I could settle at least part of my debt."

Squall glances at me from the corner of his eye, and though it's hard to tell, he seems to appreciate my decision.  Not that he'd ever say something like that out loud, but Squall understands how I'm making an effort here and that means a lot more than it should.

~ > < ~

Standing in the middle of a parking lot, I stare up at the neon red letters that spell out "School of Martial Arts" and resist the instinct to make certain that Squall got the right place.  I'm not certain what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn't for the school to be located at the end of an older strip mall and neighboring a 'Close Shave' barber shop.  In reality, it's nothing new to find a karate place in the middle of some random shopping center, but I guess I assumed that Squall would go to a classier place than this.  Something traditional and not... ordinary.

"Are you coming?"

Without looking away from the glaring letters, I grunt out a 'yeah' and force myself to follow the brunet when a sudden onset of nerves makes me second guess my decision to come here.

Squall is the first to enter and holds the door open for me, revealing the sounds of a large class being held inside.  The front room is small with a collection of padded benches, a set of doors leading to locker rooms, and a glass counter that displays a variety of belts, hand weapons, and other purchasable items.  Behind that counter is a woman I'd recognize anywhere, and with her attention diverted by a female student speaking to her, I have the luxury to take in the sight of Fuujin Tsukihara.  Unlike the boyish girl I knew, Fuujin has matured into quite the woman--her silver-white hair is longer and hangs to the middle of her back, her eye patch is a delicate thing with painted decorations, and her clothing looks like it was actually bought from the woman's section and not an army surplus store.  My baby girl has grown up without me and it's a little depressing.

Her smile in place, Fuujin turns to look at Squall's approach, but before she speaks a greeting, her good eye finds me standing behind him and her smile vanishes.  "Seifer...?"

"Hey there, doll face," I try to say with a smile, though it ends up closer to a wince.  "It's been awhile."

Her expression goes dark in a fashion that I've seen a hundred times before, and even now, it freezes me in place.  The woman at her side tightens her green belt while asking what is wrong, but Fuujin ignores the sudent while rounding the counter and storming toward me.  In the few seconds it takes the petite woman to cross the room, I determine exactly how much trouble I'm in, but before I can think of a way to soften the blow, my commonsense is stolen away by a completely unexpected sight.

"Holy shit, Fuu, you're--"

And that's when her punch lands solidly at the side of my face, driving me to the ground.  I must lose a second or two after the hit since the room suddenly feels a bit more crowded when I manage to lift my head.  My theory is confirmed when I discover Squall squatting next to me when I'm almost positive he was heading for the locker room only a moment ago.

"What the hell is happening--"  The familiar voice is cut short when the blond man pushes his way past a couple of gawkers.  Zell Dincht hasn't changed much over the years and it doesn't help that the guy apparently never got a growth spurt.  He still has a baby face, even with the ridiculous tribal tattoo around his left eye, and it's hard to believe that anyone can respect him as a martial arts instructor.  If I didn't know otherwise, I would think that Dincht was going to a costume party dressed as a black belt from some Hong Kong movie.  At least someone got the man to change his hair style into something shorter and more mature, though he still spikes it in the middle as if he can't help himself from looking a little bit stupid.

Moving next to Fuujin, Dincht wraps a protective arm around his wife and places a hand over her pregnant stomach, the sight of which is still making my head spin.  "Seifer Almasy... I'll be damned.  We thought you had curled up and died in the corner of some bar by now."

I press the palm of my hand to my lip, and after verifying that there isn't much blood, I tell the blond punk, "Sorry to disappoint you, Dincht, but I've sobered up since I saw Fuujin last.  And if you don't mind, I'd appreciate having this discussion with her.  Alone."

Dincht scowls at the request, but his expression shifts to something wide-eyed when Squall helps me up from the ground.  Before vocalizing his surprise, the fighter claps his hands and points his students back toward the wide room they had been training in.  The group appears to be made up of mostly college-aged students and they immediately groan when Dincht commands them to do pushups until he tells them to stop, not that Dincht seems to care as he glares between Squall and me.

"Squall, don't tell me that you're associating with this dickhead."

Blue-gray eyes glance at the blond, but Squall doesn't dwell on the fighter.  Instead, he turns his gaze to me and asks quietly, "Are you alright?"

I chuckle at the needless question.  "Come on, Loire, you know that I deserved it.  However, it would have been nice to have some warning about Fuu being ready to burst with Dincht's spawn.  I could've ducked if I wasn't blindsided like that."

Squall arches an eyebrow in response, showing his lack of faith in my reflexes.

"Wait a minute, how exactly are you two..."  And at a loss of words, Dincht waves his hand between us, suggesting something that almost makes me laugh.

Unable to resist the chance to taunt the Chicken, I place a hand at Squall's shoulder.  "What, don't we make a lovely couple?"

Dincht's mouth comes unhinged at the reply, but before the joke can last, Squall knocks my hand away with a sharp slap and the warning, "Don't make it worse."  Looking to the married couple, Squall explains simply, "Seifer was evicted from his apartment last week and I'm helping him out."

"Evicted?" Fuujin repeats, some concern managing to seep into her voice.

"Yeah, but everything is working out," I say while massaging my bruised hand.  "Loire really saved my ass by letting me stay at his place.  Hell, more than a roof over my head, I've gotten better sleep in the last few days than I have in months."

Fuujin frowns at the information, the intelligent woman knowing the basics about my sleep problems, but I couldn't convince myself to tell her about the root cause of everything that is wrong in my life.  I don't know why I couldn't reveal my secrets to her, and while I regret it in many ways, I don't think I'll ever be able tell her.  Either way, it wasn't a complete lie to explain that my lack of sleep was due to terrible nightmares, but I think she has always suspected that there was something more to my story.

"Holy crap," Dincht says with a spark of unexpected insight.  "You're Squall's latest investment, aren't you?"

While I stare in disbelief, Squall grumbles, "I wish people would stop saying that."

"What else are we suppose to call it?" Dincht asks, grinning like a loon at his correct guess.

"Wait a minute," I interject when my head starts to hurt at the idea that this conversation has already happened between Squall and his uncle.  "How do you know anything about that?"

"Didn't Squall tell you?  We're number three, man," the fighter announces with a hand lifted to show two fingers and a thumb.  "He saved us five years ago and we're still paying off the debt."

While I struggle to digest that information, Squall announces, "This isn't the time or the place for this discussion.  Can we get started with my lessons or not?"

"Hell yeah, I've been waiting for you to show up," Dincht agrees with a few air punches.  "Go change and we can have a free-for-all spar, huh?"

Squall nods and turns toward the locker room, his acceptance creating an excited murmur amongst the few students stupid enough to listen into the discussion.  Dincht easily discovers the eavesdroppers, and though they do a decent job of looking innocent, Dincht stalks after them with threats of snapping their limbs.

And just like that, in the matter of seconds, I'm left alone with Fuujin and her critical gaze which seems to have been strengthened by her impending motherhood.

"So, you and Dincht..." I begin while trying to smile, but my split lip gets in the way.  "I guess there was no way I could have seen that coming, but I have to say, you look happy with him.  I mean, you don't let anyone touch you like that, and obviously Dincht has been doing more than just _touching_ ," I say with a wave toward her pregnant belly.

Fuujin blinks at the comment, and then turns sharply with a faint blush coloring her cheeks.  "Damn it, Seifer."

Pleased to know that I can still cause that expression, I step closer to the woman despite the lingering threat of her fist.  "Listen, I didn't come here expecting anything from you.  Actually, it was kind of a fluke since I didn't realize that you were friends with Loire, but I'm glad that it worked out this way.  I owe you an apology... well, more than one, really, and it's about time that I got started on that."

Her crimson eye meets my gaze again, silently judging my intent after I've fooled her so many times in the past.

"I'm sorry, baby girl.  I shouldn't have treated you like I did when you only wanted to help me.  I didn't deserve your patience or the hours you wasted caring for my drunken ass.  And I swear I'm working to turn my life around, so if you..."  I take a shaky breath, feeling both nervous and a little stupid about the question I need to ask.  "In all honesty, Fuu, I miss having a friend.  Is there any chance that we can start over?"

"... Shouldn't."

Unable to prevent a hurt expression, I sigh noisily at her expected reply.  "Yeah, I thought so.  But hey, that isn't going to stop me from making amends.  It might take some time, but you tell me what I can do and I'll do it."

Watching me carefully, she eventually smiles a faint smile and corrects, "'Shouldn't.'  Not won't."

I flash a dopey grin at her coy answer, not caring about the pain or the dribble of new blood it causes.  For the first time in a long time, I feel like I've stolen back something that my powers didn't want me to have, and it's an amazing feeling.  "You won't regret it, Fuu.  I'll make things right this time around."

Fuujin shakes her head at my promise.  "Start again.  Not over."

Though still relieved at her decision to continue our friendship, I'm a little disappointed that I don't get the luxury of a clean slate.  It's not that I think I deserve it, but it's going to take a lot of work to make up for everything that I did and I'll bet that is exactly what Fuujin has in mind.

At that moment, Squall emerges from the locker room dressed in a black uniform that doesn't have the same stiffness as those worn by most of the students I've noticed in the main room.  The brunet's extensive use of the outfit is especially noticeable at the knees and elbows where the material has been worn down to faded gray and a few loose threads.  In a casual motion, Squall tightens the black belt as his waist, confirming my suspicion of just how skilled he is in the art form.  'Learning for a while,' my ass.

"Come.  Watch," Fuujin insists with a pull of my coat sleeve.

With only some vague notion of the required etiquette, I follow Fuujin's lead by removing my shoes and bowing at the threshold.  As she leads me to the back of the room, I glance at the students who have taken a seat against the front wall to watch the sparring session.  While they all seem excited for the exhibition, the division is obvious between the thirty-something students who sit in formal kneeling positions and the college-aged students who sit in lazy sprawls against the wall while taking bets on the outcome.  I'm half-tempted to toss in few bills from the tips I earned today, but I force myself to be a good boy and stay at Fuujin's side.

The pregnant woman leans against the mirrored wall, apparently her observation point of choice, and when I take a seat on the floor next to her, I realize that it's probably the worst seat in the house.  The students had a reason for sitting at the front of the room, giving them a good view for when Dincht and Squall stand in the middle of a large circle painted on the mats.  They bow to each other, the action revealing that both men had put on some kind of padded gloves to cover their hands while leaving the fingers bare.  It's the only form of protection I notice before they retreat into loose fighting stances and eye each other as only experienced rivals can.

Bouncing on his toes, Dincht springs forward a few times, but retreats just as quickly while trying to lure Squall into an attack.  Squall doesn't fall for the feints while waiting for the instructor's real move, and when Dincht smiles with a show of white teeth, the brunet tenses in readiness.  Dincht moves forward with one foot, but immediately shifts to give his other leg the momentum to kick at Squall's head.  Squall blocks the kick with crossed hands, and in a counterattack, he grabs the leg and attacks with his own kick toward the blond's remaining support.  Dincht, however, easily knocks aside the kick, and while twisting, pushes his trapped leg against Squall to force the man off balance.  Unable to maintain his equilibrium, Squall pushes the leg over his head and drops to the ground in a controlled fall.  Landing with his hands steady behind him, he kicks out with the opposite leg from before and lands a hit against Dincht's exposed side, an attack that could have easily gone lower to cause some more painful damage.

Dincht side steps a few feet before regaining his balance, and with a rub of his nose, he grins and taunts, "You're lucky I didn't take your head just now."

"You're lucky I didn't take yours," Squall retorts dryly, almost surprising me with the crude threat toward the Chicken's 'little man'.

Dincht laughs in pure excitement, and with fists lifted, he motions for the brunet to come forward.

Entranced by the speed of the spar, I watch with open interest as the pair exchanges a few more punches than kicks in the second go-around.  I quickly gain a whole new level of respect for the stoic brunet, mostly because everything happened too fast the other night for me to appreciate Squall's form when he took care of those two brutes.  I also find it rather remarkable that Squall has it in him to make another person bleed.  It's one thing to attack someone who had attacked first, but it's an entirely different thing to punch a man in the face and smile at the shine of crimson.  Well, a smile as far as Squall is concerned.

"They're in good form tonight."

And from the high of witnessing Squall giving Dincht a bloody nose, my mood plummets into something resigned at Fuujin's offhanded comment.  It's never a good sign when she forces herself to speak a full sentence, and it doesn't help anything to figure out that Fuujin didn't choose this spot for the view, but for the sake of privacy.  To limit my misery, I decide to take the bull by the horns.

"If you have something to say, Fuu, then say it."

Fuujin doesn't speak directly while the spar continues, even though she's the one to start this.  After Dincht gets in an uppercut that knocks Squall back several steps, Fuujin finally says, "It's a mistake for you to stay with him."

A snort of laughter escapes me at her blunt opinion.  "I never said it was the most brilliant plan in the world, but it's not like I had anywhere else to go."

"Move in with Zell and me."

I turn to stare up at the pregnant woman, stunned by her offer when, as of minutes ago, we weren't exactly friends anymore.  Hell, when I was officially evicted and trying to figure out what to do next, Fuujin's name didn't even cross my mind.  And now, here she is, offering one of the most ridiculous things I've heard, second only to Squall's exact same offer several days ago.

"We have room," Fuujin maintains when she takes my silence as a rejection.  "Zell will complain.  I'll make him understand."

"Whoa, wait a minute here, doll face.  While I appreciate the offer, I'll bet that things are going to be pretty crowded with your munchkin on the way."  Fuujin opens her mouth to argue, but I plow on ahead, "There's also the issue that Loire's place is within walking distance of the new job he got me.  Being out here, I'd waste money on the bus, and frankly, I need all of the cash I can get if I'm going to repay Loire in the next decade or so.  And really, it's not bad staying with Loire.  He's a domineering fucker, but he has really helped me out."

Fuujin scowls at my reasons and insists for a second time, "It's a mistake.  A bad mistake."

I smirk at the opinion which mirrors my own fears when I first stood at the threshold of Loire's 'home'.  "Alright, Fuu, I'll bite--why do you think it's such a terrible thing for me to depend on Loire?"

Her single crimson eye glares at me for the flippant response.  "This isn't a joke, Seifer.  Zell and I owe everything to Squall.  If he gets hurt because you're a fucking idiot--"

"Hey now, I'm not out to hurt anyone, least of all Loire.  We just happened to bump into each other when I had a really shitty day, and I swear, that's the only reason why I agree to stay with him.  If you had been there instead of him, I'd probably be crashing at your place right now."

Fuujin straightens at the information, and after a glance at the sparring pair, she shakes her head in disappointment and says under her breath, "Stubborn idiot.  I told you not to bother..."

"Wait a sec, you knew he was looking for me?" I ask in disbelief, recalling how Squall had spent the better part of a week hunting me down.  Her pink lips tighten without a verbal reply, but it's more than enough for me to figure out her answer.  "Fucking hell, Fuu, did I screw up so badly with you that you decided to keep everyone else away?"

"That's not why I refused to say anything," Fuujin lashes back and my instincts prickle at her tone which threatens that I'm about to be punched for a second time tonight.

"Loire had something important to tell me, doll face.  Why did you have to screw around with that?"

Fuujin frowns at the question.  "Something 'important'...?  What did he tell you?"

I avert my eyes to look at the floor, clueless about how I could possibly twist the facts this time around.  The simple truth is that I nearly collapsed when Squall told me that the baby girl from my vision had been saved.  Finally, _finally_ , my vision had meant something beyond dreams of a corpse blaming me for being too slow, too _stupid_ to stop something I had weeks to figure out.  And yet, that soul-relieving moment was fleeting, replaced with unemployment and homelessness within a matter of hours.

A sharp yell makes me glance at the continuing spar and I watch as Squall dodges a mean series of open-handed strikes from the energetic blond.  A part of me wants to be annoyed at Squall for proving that he can become an expert at whatever he attempts, but in actuality, I think I would have been disappointed if he wasn't as good as I imagined.  And when he grabs Dincht's arm to throw the smaller man to the ground, I smile at the vague memory of Squall using that same move the other night.  I guess I should be a little more upset at being the helpless damsel rescued by a dark hero, but I'm not afraid to admit when I've been outmatched.

"He didn't...  He couldn't have..."

At the oddly meek voice, I look back up at the pregnant woman, but instead of the various expressions that I was expecting, there's a touch of honest rage to her lovely face.  From experience alone, I casually place my hands over my vulnerable crotch area and wonder why I thought it'd be a good idea to sit on the ground.  Sure, my feet hurt from a long day of work, but I should've known that staying upright and being able to escape is the better option around the violent woman.

With a hiss of anger, Fuujin warns, "God help me, Seifer, you can't do this to him."

After a few blinks, I ask cautiously, "Uh, and what am I doing, exactly?"

"Don't play with me.  I know your games and I _hate_ this one.  Squall is _not_ that asswipe Karsten."

My breath stops at the name of my failed experiment from back in my freshman year of college, a name Fuujin knows because I had to tell _someone_ or else go insane while blaming my damaged genetics for another gem of a trait.  I can't remember what Fuujin said after my story, though I know there was laughing...  Actually, a whole lot of laughing from Fuujin and a sneaking suspicion on my part that she would use her newly acquired knowledge against me.  Granted, I didn't think it'd be used like _this_.

"I'm not..." I try to argue, still dumbstruck by her assumption.  "I _wouldn't_..."

Fuujin glares at me, not believing my sorry attempt.  "I thought it was strange for Squall to take you in.  Did you lie to him?  Tell him that you love him, too?  And what, for a place to stay and a new wardrobe?  That's a new low, even for you.  And damn you, Seifer Almasy, for making me think that I might be able to trust you again."

Somehow, even though I feel like my thoughts are spinning out of control, I catch a frightening word within her string of accusations.  "'Too'?  What do you mean... by 'too'?"

The simple question seems to snap the woman out of her possibly hormone-enriched fury, and while staring at me and my undoubtedly baffled expression, she quickly loses her steam.  "Isn't that what Squall told you?  That he, since at least high school..."  Her voice fades when she realizes that her assumptions were completely off target, and bearing a horrified blush, she presses the heel of her hand to her forehead.  "SHIT."

"But... That can't be right, Fuu.  Loire told me himself that he isn't stupid enough to... uh, want me," I say when I recall the incident with the runaway kid and Squall's cruel joke to say he loved me.  That guy would do anything to prove a point, even if it resulted in me choking to death on a piece of blackberry pie.

Fuujin takes a breath to calm her emotions and return to her normal, impassive state.  "No, he doesn't reveal himself like that."

"But he obviously told _you_ something."

"He didn't," she corrects with a tone that suggests I'm an idiot for thinking otherwise.  "I saw what you ignored."

Struggling to find a rationale, anything to explain the situation, I try to reason with her, "You've got to be blowing this out of proportion.  I mean, the guys at the diner say that I'm Squall's type or some shit like that.  Surely it's just a physical thing and not... you know..."

"You were first.  His 'type' is trying to replace you."

I lean back in frustration and my head knocks hard against the mirrored wall, but I barely notice the sting.  I want to deny everything and convince myself that Squall isn't capable of doing something so reckless and stupidly wasteful, but I can't ignore the things that seem so painfully obvious with the new piece of information.  He believed me when I told him about foreseeing dreams, he took me into his home with barely a thought, and he sat with me when I was too afraid to sleep.  If I wasn't so confused and annoyed, I'd probably be impressed with how easily Squall dodged my questions about why he was doing so much to help me out.

And God damn it, my fucker of a father is going to have a field day knowing that he was right about Squall's intentions, albeit a warped version of those hidden emotions.

"Stay with Zell and me.  It'd be best for everyone."

Staring up at the ceiling, I'm surprised when I don't have the immediate impulse to accept her generous offer.  Instead, the same anxiousness as the night before sinks into my chest, and before I understand what I'm doing, my gaze shifts to Squall and my nerves calm down to a more reasonable level.  It doesn't make any sense, but a part of me still needs to be around the brunet.  Maybe it's because things have been turning around with his influence, maybe it's because I'm addicted to the sleep that I've only gotten at his place, but I don't want to leave him.  I can't leave him, not yet.

"Well?" Fuujin prods, though something in her tone tells me that she already knows my answer.

"Thank you, doll face, but there are other things in play that you don't know about."  When she shows a skeptical expression at that, I explain further, "I've made a couple of promises that I intend to keep, and if I wasn't living with him, I think Loire would try to pretend that I don't owe him anything."

Though not fully convinced, Fuujin sighs out a defeated breath.  "You've changed."

"If only..." I murmur, not entirely convinced that I have changed where it matters.  The cosmetic shit that everyone else can see is different, but at my core, I know that I'm still an egotistical, selfish bastard.  All I want is to feel safe and happy, even if that means Squall suffers because he's stupid enough to grant me everything I desire.  It's not something I'm proud to recognize, but I don't have the willpower to change that part of me for the better.

"You hurt him, I punch you," Fuujin warns after observing me for a good minute and God knows what expression I could possibly be showing right now.

"Since when have you needed an excuse?"

She huffs, but doesn't deny the accusation.  Instead, she rubs her pregnant stomach and makes the random comment, "It's a boy, by the way."

I smile at the sudden change in topics that would have confused most people, but I know how it's her way of saying that she has said everything she wanted to say and that was that.  Even when she uses full sentences, Fuujin doesn't like to waste words, and with her moving onto details about her baby, I figure that the next subject matter of choice is sharing the big news that I've missed over the years.

Relaxing with the new topic, I ask the appropriate questions about her and Dincht, about names for the baby, and their plans for more kids.  And while I was interested in her answers, it's hard to focus like I should.  Instead, my eyes continue to find Squall, the brunet covered in sweat and bruises, and I keep asking myself one annoying question: What am I suppose to do about this?

~ > < ~

My every breath forms thick mist as I trudge up the stairs to Squall's place, but even when staring at those puffs of breath, I don't feel the icy cold like I should.  Frankly, my mind is too distracted to focus on something like chilly weather.  Sure, I told Fuujin how I want to stay with the serious brunet and I have no reason to doubt my choice, but I failed to understand how my decision might actually need some kind of plan to back it up.  Squall, too observant to miss any changes in my behavior, already asked if everything was okay between Fuujin and me, a question that was repeated when I was quiet on the ride home.  He knows something is different, and it won't take him very long to figure everything out.

Almost reaching the third level, my skin prickles at the presence of my bastard father, and while Squall unlocks the door to his home, I turn around to find the ghost standing several feet behind me.  His entire body is tense with rage and his pale blue eyes glow with unusual energy in the darkness; it's a sight that doesn't settle well with me.

" _Leave him_ ," he demands in slow, threat-filled words.  "I won't have that cocksucker turnin' my _son_ into a fuckin' _queer_."

I don't say anything while looking at the pathetic man, not wanting to bother Squall with the nuisance, but I make certain that my body language shows that I don't give a damn what the dead prick wants.  My message apparently gets across crystal clear since the ghost ends up howling in angered frustration.

"Seifer?  Is something wrong?"

With an unconcerned smirk, I turn back around and finish climbing the stairs.  "Nah, it's nothing worth mentioning."

Squall frowns to show that he doesn't believe me one bit, but will accept the claim since he can't prove otherwise.  He enters the condo to flip on the lights and remove his leather jacket with a pained wince when he stretches an injured shoulder too far.  I consider commenting on his eventual defeat at the hands of the Chicken, but I cross the threshold at that moment and I'm instantly overwhelmed by the caress of his 'home'.

I remember walking into this place several days ago and thinking that something was strange.  I was accepted too easily by this home that should have been wary of a new presence, but now it's ridiculously obvious why this home embraced me.  I'm not a guest or a friend being welcomed here, but someone who has been given a place within Squall's heart, and therefore deserving of a completely different status to the living energy of his home.  I should have recognized it immediately, especially when it felt like the home was waiting for my appearance, waiting for me to complete its existence, but I never thought Squall was _that_ unpredictable with his emotions.

He shouldn't have given me a second glance, let alone falling for a worthless bastard like me... And he shouldn't have believed me when I told him that I could see his kidnapped mother in my dreams, alive but dying.  Well shit, it's amazing how one answer can explain just about everything.

"Something is wrong."

I open my eyes, not realizing that they had been closed in the first place, and I find Squall standing closer than before with his arms crossed over his chest.  Still connected to the energy of the home, I stare at the dark-haired man who seems too clean-cut and perfect to be the enigma he apparently is, and with my head not in the right place, I say out loud, "You lied."

"... What have I lied about?"

A breath of laughter escapes me when I recognize his ploy.  "Oh, you're good, Sherlock.  Probably better than me, and that's saying something.  So fine, I'll agree that you didn't lie, but you sure as Hell made me believe something that was a lie."

Stormy eyes shift at the accusation, the only visible indication of guilt.  "What are you talking about, Seifer?"

I step directly in front of the shorter man, forcing the brunet to look up to meet my gaze.  "I'm talking about your little game the other day.  And for your information, I still don't think you look stupid enough to love me, but apparently, I'm not the right person to be answering that question."

His eyes widen noticeably, though not in the dramatic manner I had imagined during the car ride here.  "You... don't know what you're saying."

"No, you just _hope_ that I don't know what I'm saying, but the truth is that I should've seen it years ago."  In a flash of inspiration, I suddenly recall the comment that had probably started all of this, and with a disbelieving look at the brunet, I ask him, "Holy crap, have you really liked me since _middle school?_ "

Squall backs away at the question, his dark eyebrows furrowing in an expression that fluctuates between anger and fear.

"Hey, I'm not trying to attack you here, Loire," I try to explain, but before I can get out something better, a growled out 'cock-eatin' _whore_ ' makes me spin around and glare at the ghost who lingers just beyond the reach of the home's protective energy.  In the time it takes me to slam the door in his face, he snarls out a couple more slurs that aren't the least bit creative, but hurtful all the same.  It's a lucky thing that Squall can't hear a word of it, though I have a feeling that he's heard it all before.

Even as muffled curses continue through the solid wood, I hear the distinctive padding of footsteps.  I turn to find the unexpected sight of Squall halfway across the condo, the brunet walking away as if our talk had ended naturally and it was time for bed.  The sad thing is that I have to give the man some credit--he doesn't really look like he's running away from this discussion, or like he's running away from me.

Not wanting to let him get away, I chase after the quick bastard and almost get within reach when he slips into his bedroom and closes the door with a fast, but careful touch.  I slam my open palms against the wood in frustration, but I try to control my voice when I tell him, "Damn it, Loire, what do you think you're doing, running off like that?  I've seen you face down a handful of dumbass jocks on more than a few occasions, and you're fucking running away from _this?_ "

When Squall says nothing beyond the door, I hear my own words and I realize what it must mean for Squall to escape like he did when nothing else would make him retreat in such an obvious fashion.  It makes things a little more real and a little more frightening to see with my own eyes that Squall's feelings apparently run deeper than a superficial crush or reckless lust.  And I didn't recognize any of it in the years I've known the secretive idiot.

Frustrated, I press my forehead against the barrier between us and notice the shadow at the base of the door, the sight proving that Squall is only inches away and listening even if he doesn't answer.

"I'm not mad at you, Loire," I say while trying to guess what he needs to hear.  "I'm not disgusted, either, but I'll admit to being more than a little confused about all of this.  And seriously, I don't have a clue what you were thinking to let me stay here, assuming you actually have feelings for me.  It seems a bit impulsive, really stupid, and nothing at all like you."  Realizing that my words could give the wrong impression, I quickly amend, "That's not to say that I don't want to stay here.  You probably don't know this, but you have a good home, a _really_ good home that goes beyond the physical level of brick and wood."

I pause with the incomplete explanation, but hearing a skeptical snort from the brunet, I'm encourage to delve into the few details I know.  "I'm not making this up, Sherlock.  See, most homes are just regular places where people happen to live, but a true home is much more than that.  I don't know why it happens, so don't ask me, but a true home has a type of living energy that can make a friend feel welcomed and a stranger feel anxious and watched.  I noticed the energy of your home the moment I set foot in this place, but the real surprise was that your home can shield a person like me from the nastier spirits out there.  As something you'd appreciate, my bastard of a father got his ass kicked by the energy here and he hasn't been able to haunt me like he used to.  Your beloved home wasn't happy about him trying to strangle you the other night."  Not wanting to say the words, I silently add that I wasn't exactly happy about my father's vicious attack, either.

The shadow shifts at the base of the door, and in my mind, I see Squall reaching for the doorknob, but not letting himself open the door.  It's cute what my imagination comes up with when I should limit myself to less creative thoughts.

"Listen, Loire, if you want me to leave, I'll go... but I want to stay.  Just a little bit longer, or until you can't handle my being here anymore."

A soft breath sounds beyond the door, followed by a quiet, "Stay as long as you need."

The shadow pulls away, and after a minute of waiting, I can hear Squall start his shower.  I back away from the door, and though I've been given the permission I wanted, it doesn't feel like enough for some reason.  Deciding to wait out the stubborn brunet, I move to the couch that faces his bedroom and sit down to rest my face in spread hands.  The sad thing is that I don't even know what I want from Squall or why I'm bothering to wait for him to show his face.  Even if he admits that he loves me, it's not like I'd wrap my arms around him and make him mine.  But if he says it was all a misunderstanding and he never loved me... That possibility feels a bit lonely for some stupid reason.

I grumble a curse into my hands, confused and frustrated by my conflicting desires.  I'll admit that I wasn't completely lying to my prick of a father when I told him that Squall is attractive enough for something more interesting, but I can't... I _can't_ fuck this up with Squall.  More than him knowing everything about me, he's the last thread of a lifeline that links me to something that resembles sanity.  Without Squall's interference, I have no doubt that I would've ended up like my mother sooner or later.

Uncomfortable with that reality, I pull my hands away from my face and stare at the rug without seeing the overlapping pattern of squares.  Instead, I think about the path in my mind that seemed so clear only a few hours ago: I was going to rely on Squall's strength until I could stand on my own two feet, somehow pay him back for everything, and then slink out of his life as my final repayment.  But suddenly, that path seems blurry and shadowed and I'm terrified of taking another wrong step.  So many things went wrong the last time I made a misstep and I can't afford another bad decision.  To make things worse, if I step on a landmine like I fear, Squall is right there beside me, trying to help me forward.  He's going to get hurt and that isn't what I wanted.  That _isn't_...

Groaning as I lean back, I gaze up the ceiling and say with certainty, "Fuujin is going to kill me when I mess this up."


	5. Chapter 5

[Squall]

I'm a coward.

It's the last thing I want to think about, but the thought comes nonetheless while I stare into the golden warmth of my drink.  Thus far, I have completely failed to smother the memories of Monday night with an excessive amount of work and too little sleep.  I usually rely on running to clear my mind, but the morning after everything went wrong, I pushed myself too hard and ultimately threw up onto someone's lawn.  I laughed after that, but it wasn't a good type of laughter.  Nothing else has helped since then, but this is the first time I've thought about alcohol as something to dull my thoughts.  I can only assume it's Seifer's fault that something so obvious didn't come to mind sooner.

Three days ago, my hopeless fantasy world was revealed for what it was, but instead of dealing with the situation like a grown man or like someone who always knew Seifer would figure things out, I ran away like a frightened child.  Even now it doesn't sound like anything I'd do, but all of the facts are there--I turned my back to Seifer when something else held his attention, and I walked away as if nothing important had been said.  Oddly enough, I don't exactly remember making the decision to run.  My body moved, and by the time my mind caught up, I had already placed a locked door between us.  How pathetic.

To make things worse, Seifer didn't react as I anticipated.  The blond had been oblivious for years, fifteen to be exact, and I always assumed that I would see the end coming long before I would be forced to confront it.  I wasn't supposed to be blindsided like I was.  Even when I considered the potential of Seifer having a spark of insight, I didn't think the former quarterback would touch the issue with a ten-foot pole.  He should have avoided the topic for weeks and months, however long it would take for Seifer to mentally cope with the idea of another man wanting him.  It shouldn't have taken less than an hour, assuming the likelihood that this is all Fuujin's doing.

And now, sitting at a scratched up table in Lady Luck, I stare into two fingers of whiskey and recall Seifer's voice when he asked, 'Have you really liked me since _middle school?_ '  For the first time I can remember, the mere thought of his low-timbered voice grates on my nerves, and uncomfortable with that foreign reality, I lift the glass to my lips and finish off my second drink of the night.

"Well now, this is a rare treat," a man says from behind me, the soft lilt of his voice highlighting his amusement.  "You usually cut your whiskey with something boring whenever you sit with me.  Defeats the purpose, I say."

"Donovan," I say without facing the Irish gangster.

"Leon," he says in turn while taking a seat at my left side.  He may be casual about it, but I noticed a long time ago that Donovan always sits or stands to my left, which makes me wonder when he figured out that I'm weaker on that side.  I've been trying to fix that with Zell, but the matter remains that Donovan gains a couple seconds by avoiding my right side, and that was probably my first warning that the man is more dangerous than he looks.

Once the gangster settles into his seat, a waitress appears with a clean glass and a fresh bottle of whiskey on her tray.  Donovan takes the glass and bottle, and after pouring himself a healthy serving, he turns to my emptied glass.  "And what are we toasting to?  To saving your damsel?  To a brush with death?  Or perhaps to a very sweet kill?" he prods in good temper, his hazel eyes glittering with anticipation of my reaction.

Annoyed by his taunts, I scoff and wave off his attempt to pour far too much into my glass.

"Ah, then it's love on your mind," he states with a forlorn sigh.  "But then again, isn't it always love?"

I frown at his guess that is true enough, but I know better than to share my problems with the gangster.  Instead, I reach into a jacket pocket and pull out a photo to show Donovan.  The picture is a mug shot of Walker Biggs, a regular thick-necked brute with a military style buzz cut and a smile showing a few capped teeth.  His primary identifying feature is a scar that cuts down his throat from his right ear to his chest, and from my research, there are more stories about how he got that scar than there are tattoos on his body.  I wouldn't be particularly surprised if he gave himself that scar to create a touch of mystery around his already brutal image.

Donovan takes the picture from my hand, and with a lifted eyebrow, he questions, "Is _this_ the love we're toasting to?  I was of the opinion that you and your damsel may have found each other again."

Ignoring his weak attempt of a joke, I explain, "He skipped on his bail yesterday.  My last lead put him in this area."

The red-haired man hums lightly at my unspoken request for help.  "And what about your little bodyguard?  Shouldn't he be watching your back while you play bounty hunter?"

"He isn't involved."

Donovan straightens in surprise, but his expression quickly hardens and he waves the mug shot in a harsh motion.  " _This_ isn't a man you should approach by your lonesome.  As worthless as your wide-eyed guardian may be, he would serve well as a distraction if you're wise enough to attack from behind."

I glare at the gangster, not quite certain why he chose tonight to be meddlesome.  Donovan has always played his games, but he isn't usually a man who gives out free advice.

"Please, I've gotten worse looks from my loving mother," Donovan says while flinging the picture onto the table.  "I don't know what's wrong with your head, Leon, but I never pegged you for a man who would lose his life over a broken heart."

"This is about a bounty and nothing else," I remind in a warning tone.

"A bounty," the red-haired man repeats with a snort, but instead of continuing his argument, Donovan leans back in his chair and eyes me in a thoughtful manner while tapping a finger against his glass.  "How about a trade, then?  You do me a favor and I'll let you know where your 'bounty' is hiding."

I frown with the memory of the past 'favor' I did for the gangster.  While it wasn't technically illegal, I have no interest in repeating that favor or one similar to it.  Unfortunately, if I want to stay on good terms with this man, I have to listen to his requests and, somehow, find a way to solve his problems without becoming a criminal myself.

Donovan laughs at my hesitation.  "What an expression!  You worry too much, Leon.  Do you really think that I'm going to place a heavy price on information for a piece of trash like Biggs?"

"Then what do you want?"

"It's nothing terribly important.  You see, the boys and I have a small wager that requires resolution, and it just so happens that you are the one source that everyone would believe in the attempt to settle this dispute."

"And why is that?" I ask, my suspicions not relieved by the overly convenient situation.

Donovan grins, but doesn't answer my question.  His unspoken message is clear enough, however, that it's my choice whether or not to accept his offer at face value.  I should be grateful that he doesn't want me to break someone's legs or retrieve some 'lost' merchandise, but this man has a way of making the simple requests into something more dangerous.  Unfortunately, I can't determine his end game with this trade, and with no other lead available to me, I'm forced to rely on the gangster's offer.

"Go ahead," I submit with clear reluctance.

The redhead's grin widens at the acceptance toward his deal.  "The matter is simple enough, actually.  We can't seem to figure out if you're a man who sleeps with the hens or has his eye on the cocks."

Though startled by the topic, I manage to school my expression while eyeing Donovan to determine if the wager is real or some kind of joke between men.  Hazel eyes, however, remain firm under my study and it becomes obvious that Donovan is very interested in my answer.  While I don't particularly care what others think about my preferences, I'm also aware that I'll live a longer life if certain people don't know that little detail.  Something about homosexuality gets men defensive about their own manhood, and when it comes to gangsters, defending their manhood usually involves throttling or killing whatever threatens them.

But even as I consider lying, I realize that it's too late.  A 'real' man would have been offended by the implication of being gay, but I have wasted too much time thinking about how the wrong answer could get me killed.  And looking into hazel eyes, I can tell that Donovan has already determined the truth, but he's still waiting for my answer.  Waiting with a shark's smile.

Resigned, I lean back in my chair and decide to ask my own question given his expression.  "How much did you win on this wager?"

Donovan laughs without reserve, openly pleased by my implied answer.  "Three dimes, if those lowlifes can scrape up the money.  They were so certain about the swing of your dick that the simpletons gave me odds."  He lifts his glass and motions toward mine.  "Let's toast to my keen eye and good fortune, eh?"

Though still wary of what my answer means to the Irishman, I join in his toast with a clink of my glass against his.

While I take slow sips of the whiskey, Donovan downs his drink as if it was nothing stronger than a mouthful of beer, and with the emptied glass slammed against the counter, he chuckles lightly.  "You are a surprising man, Leon.  A weaker bastard wouldn't dare admit to bending over like a woman, but I have to respect you for staying true to yourself."

"... Will it be an issue?"

With a dismissive shrug, the gangster says, "I can't speak for everyone, but I've seen you fight and that's all the evidence I need to know you're a man I would trust to watch my back.  Although, that's not to say I'll be sharing a piss with you, if you know what I mean."

I nod at the boundaries of his tolerance, even though it's incredibly annoying how too many idiots seem to believe that my looking at their dicks will turn them gay.  Honestly, if it was that easy...

"But now you've made me curious--is it because you fancy your bodyguard that you're in foul humor tonight?"

Unprepared for that observation, I stare at the red-haired man and try to comprehend the real purpose behind his question.  I find it very difficult to believe that the gangster would be concerned about my love life, and a homosexual love life at that.

"That's twice I've gotten a reaction from you," he comments with a slight flare of victory and pours more whiskey into my glass.  "You are off your game tonight, Leon, and I admit that I never expected a wounded heart would be your downfall."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"That would be very convenient if it were true, but I know how your bodyguard was protecting that fine woman while you stood over those morons of mine.  Before that night, I wasn't certain if you had the spirit to commit murder, but I understand now that you're a man who simply requires the proper motivation to do the things against your nature."

And with that offhanded statement, my stomach sours with the realization of why Donovan decided to speak about this matter.  In the time I've known this man, he has watched me closely to discover any weakness that can be exploited.  I have tried to be careful by using a different name and not speaking of my family, but given the redhead's eager expression, he has discovered something that I never wanted him to see.

Normally I wouldn't be overly bothered by the situation as I'm on good terms with the gangster, but everyone knows that Donovan is in the business of selling information.  Eventually, someone will decide that I should be punished for something I've done, and the only real question is if that person will have the currency Donovan desires.  If there's one small saving grace, it's that no one should know Seifer's name in this area, which will make him a hard man to find.

In acceptance of my momentary defeat, I lift my glass to the Irishman and take a long drink.

Donovan chuckles while lifting his own glass.  "See, this is why I like you, Leon.  It's rare in my business to deal with men who understand the situation without me spelling it out to them."

I finish the serving of hard liquor despite the sickness to my stomach, and placing the glass out of reach for the Irishman, I remind him, "You owe me information on Biggs."

"That I do," Donovan agrees, and after finishing off his whiskey, he pushes up from his chair yells for his right-hand man, Finn, to bring his coat.  At my confused stare, the gangster explains, "Your bounty has gathered his old gang, which is why I expressed my concerns about your intentions.  I still have no interest when it comes to aiding in suicide, but I know that I can't stop you.  As such, I'm in high spirits and I have no other plans for the night."

His words do little to temper my confusion.  "You're going to help me?"

"Let's call it a repaid debt for protecting that woman last week.  It would have been... bothersome if she had been raped or, Heaven forbid, killed within my territory.  The fine police officers in this area are rather single-minded and they would have done everything in their power to place the blame on my innocent head."

The first thought that comes to mind is that I've been swindled by this man.  If he apparently owed me a debt, it shouldn't have been necessary for me to play his games and accidentally reveal something that will inevitably come back to haunt me.  But even as I realize how I played into his hands, I figure that everything since showing that mug shot has gone according to Donovan's plan.  The bastard probably has something against Biggs existing within his territory and that is the real reason he has decided to help me with the bounty.

God help me, I _am_ off my game tonight.

While Finn helps Donovan into his coat, I push up from my chair and instantly regret those drinks when the action makes me lightheaded for a worrisome moment.  Steeling against the effects of the whiskey, I step in front of the gangster and warn, "I don't intent to share the bounty with you."

"No worry there--my bounty is getting Biggs and his little 'soldiers' out of my territory, especially one particular soldier boy with sticky fingers," Donovan states, the last part said in a low voice that persuades me to leave the issue alone, or else face the possibility of becoming an accessory to murder.  "Finn will drive us, which will give us plenty of time to plan our attack.  I hope you're prepared for a dirty fight, because I find it boring to play it clean."

I hesitate a fraction of a second before I ultimately follow the gangster.  On a logical level, I know that it isn't wise to depend on Donovan, especially when this fight may require me to place my back to the red-haired man, but another part of me wants this.  I want to lower myself to Donovan's level and beat the shit out of someone simply because the person is in my way.  If I end up broken and bleeding as well, that would be perfectly fine.  I'm hurting too much on the inside and I need to balance that with some physical pain.  I need a pain that will eventually heal, even if the internal pain lingers as it already has for too many years.

At the entrance to the bar, Donovan turns and grins at whatever he sees in my expression.  "Well now, it looks like we're of a similar mind about tonight's entertainment."

"Whatever," I grumble under my breath as I move past the red-haired man and push through the bar doors into the frigid night.  A dose of clarity hits me with the fresh air, but it only serves to remind me of Seifer and his voice asking questions I don't want to answer.  I'm somewhat surprised, actually, that he hasn't asked why I love him, and of all the questions he could ask, that's the one I won't be able to answer.  After all, it's the same question I've been asking myself for years with no solution.  It should be a simple matter of attraction and sexual compatibility, but no matter how many times I've tried, I can't find a replacement for Seifer.  No one comes close and it doesn't make any sense.

Damn it, I didn't _want_ to love the idiot--why should I have to suffer like this?

~ > < ~

By the time I reach home, soreness radiates across my back and a dull throb in my head beats in a constant rhythm that allows no relief.  Even the simple act of parking Ward's loaner car makes me cringe when I stretch my left arm too far while turning the wheel.  Normally I would have returned the car and picked up my motorcycle, but all I want right now is to take a long shower and then crawl into bed, preferably before Seifer wakes up for his job at the diner.  If he sticks to his schedule, the blond shouldn't wake for another couple of hours, but I know better than to assume that Seifer won't change his routine in the attempt to corner me.

I climb out of the car with careful movements, but then thoughtlessly close the door like normal, the resulting noise sounding like gunfire against my headache.  I glare at the car door for being the source of additional agony, but that leads me to stare at my reflection in the window.  After fighting a crew of thugs, I don't look too bad... currently.  The side of my face is colored with smeared blood, and while I knew about the deep cut to my eyebrow, it appears that I'm going to have a healthy black eye by tonight.  Absolutely wonderful.

The ambush against Biggs and his gang could have gone better with some actual planning, especially if none of those plans involved Donovan.  The gangster's information led us to a vacated property that was a restaurant at one point in time, and though it didn't have any obvious security, lowlifes like Biggs and his team tend to own guns, if only to show them off.  I didn't want to gamble on the chance that they would be too drunk, too high, or too stupid to use those guns, but Donovan barged in without a care in the world and a smile on his face.

If nothing else, the gangster served as an excellent distraction while I came in from the back.  I reached Biggs easily enough, knocked him out with a well-aimed punch to his throat, and handcuffed him to a table that was bolted to the ground.  Everything was going fine until his old partner in crime, Wedge, suddenly appeared.  Buell Wedge is a lanky man with wild eyes, and while he's probably a greater coward than Biggs, they somehow work well as a pair.  Just as I finished with Biggs, Wedge swung a chair at me, the attack damaging my left arm and slicing the skin above my eye.  Despite the blood flowing down my face, I managed to dodge most of Wedge's unskilled punches while regaining my breath, and when he faltered in his attacks due to exhaustion, I kicked him in the groin.  A cheap shot, perhaps, but it took Wedge out of the fight and made me feel better.

In the subsequent twenty minutes, I was punched on the same side of my face that dripped with blood, sliced by a broken bottle of cheap beer, and nearly shot by a kid who thought he knew how to use a gun.  Donovan, on the other hand, barely had a scratch on him and ended up in the booth where I left Biggs, the Irishman sitting with a beer in hand and his legs propped up on Biggs' back.  The red-haired bastard probably had a good time watching me clean up the mess he started.  At least he had the decency to help me with Biggs, although it was actually Finn who carried the dead weight while Donovan grabbed Wedge without a clear explanation as to why.

After returning to Lady Luck, I shoved Biggs into my car while Wedge was taken into the bar, screaming about his supposed innocence.  I tried not to notice much--the man did hit me with a chair after all.

The ride to Dollet took a little over three hours, including the time required to deposit Biggs at the district jail where he was originally arrested.  After a quick stop to grab a large cup of black coffee, I started the long trip home.  It has been a long night and I'm ready to be done with it.

I start up the stairs that lead to my condo on the third floor, my thoughts swirling around the possibility of Seifer waiting for me.  I can imagine him clearly, standing just in front of the door and blocking my path inside... but it hasn't happened in the two days before this, and there's no reason to assume today will be any different.  From what Ward has told me, Seifer has put all of his energy into work and getting every little thing right, even at Ward's high standards.

Seifer is trying to prove something, but that's nothing new.  He has been trying to prove his existence since the first day I met him.

That thought comes to mind when I set eyes on the door to my condo, and with a deep exhale of relief that my day is almost done, I increase my pace while going up the last bit of stairs.  My right foot reaches the landing first, and just as I begin to shift my weight, something inexplicable happens: I fall backwards.  Unable to focus on the occurrence, I throw my arms out to grab for the handrails, but my backward angle is too sharp to immediately find my balance.  I slip down five steps before I stop with one knee bent against the edge of a concrete step and my other leg twisted at an odd angle two steps below that.

My heart pounding, I look around for a reason for my fall, and though it would be easy enough to blame the alcohol I had earlier tonight or even the potential concussion from being punched in the face, I know that isn't what happened.  I felt hands against my chest, and though the push wasn't that strong, it obviously caught me off guard.  With a little more pressure, I could have been shoved down the entire flight of stairs, an idea that makes my stomach sour.  And while it's hard for my logical mind to consider, I have a good feeling about who would love for me to break my neck.

Refusing to appear weak in front of the ghost that has haunted Seifer for too long, I slowly straighten and try not to wince when my left foot argues against the weight I place on it.  I walk up the remaining steps, careful to drag my hand along the railing in preparation of a second attack that, for whatever reason, doesn't come.  I reach my door, and though I feel nothing physical like the push from before, a harsh shiver racks my body in the moment between unlocking the door and stepping inside a little faster than I wanted.

I close the door behind me, and almost instantly, the warmth of the condo drives away the chill caused by my brush with the unknown.  It reminds me of Seifer's talk about this being a 'true home,' an idea that seems misguided to me.  When I think about a home, I envision the house from my childhood and how each piece of furniture seemed to invite guests to sit and stay as long as they wanted.  Meanwhile, when I look at my version of a home, I realize that it has no personal touches or anything to say that I live here.  I may remember where I purchased each piece of furniture, but the entire ensemble looks like it came from a collection displayed in a catalogue.

How something like that can translate into a 'home' I can't begin to understand... but Seifer says it does, even if he also seemed a little confused about the fact.  Assuming he is right, I should be protected here, and in my current state, I'm willing to ignore the logical arguments that would prove him wrong.

After removing my boots and jackets, I glance over at Seifer's door and take a breath when there isn't any movement from his room.  It's probably a miracle that my stumble on the stairs didn't wake the man, but it could also be a sign that the idiot stayed up last night, waiting to ambush me.  I know this game can't continue forever, but I keep thinking that I need just one more day, just a little more time to prepare myself for being rejected... as if the last fifteen years haven't been time enough.

I walk as softly as I can with a slight limp and make it to my bedroom without waking the sleeping blond.  I pull the door shut behind me, and after locking it, I begin to remove my clothing while moving in the direction of the bathroom.  Although the shirt looks beyond repair, I go ahead and toss it into the laundry hamper along with everything else.  After I turn on the shower, I face the mirror to study my reflection while waiting for the water to heat up.  Already aware of the damage to my face, I examine my left side and sigh at the nasty bruise developing around my shoulder.  Falling down the stairs certainly didn't help matters.  If I was smart, I would put ice on the injured shoulder, but that would mean going into the kitchen and creating more noise than acceptable.

Otherwise, my stomach has a shallow cut from where someone tried to slice me with a broken beer bottle, my right knee is scraped from dragging against the concrete step, and my left ankle is still sore from being twisted at an odd angle.  I can't really remember the last time I've been this injured, but I'm fairly certain it was back in high school when a group of jocks thought it would be best to show me my place.  I vaguely recall that my mother took care of me after that time, dabbing each inch of broken skin with some herbal concoction.  It smelled nice, whatever it was.

Prodding at the deep bruise covering my shoulder, I decide that Donovan may have been right when he said that there should be a better way for me to cope with an injured heart.  I could have gotten myself killed tonight... or maybe that was the point, just as Donovan thought. One way or another, I should probably consider healthier outlets for my frustrations, especially when Seifer is bound to make things worse the moment he manages to corner me.  Maybe painting.  My mother once loved to paint...

I hiss when pressing too hard against the bruise, and staring at the tender spot, I notice a deepening purple color to my skin.  With warped interest, I wonder if I could replicate the range of colors in paint, but even as I think about it, I decide that it's easier and far more satisfying to create those brutal colors the natural way.  Next time, however, I'll leave Donovan out of it and maybe limit the damage, at least to a more reasonable level.

~ > < ~

Chopped onions sizzle in melted butter, the sound a soothing one as I lazily pull apart a chuck roast I had leftover in the fridge.  I originally planned to do something more creative with the excess meat than beef stroganoff, but after the events of last night, I don't feel like making something complicated.  I may have spent most of the day sleeping, but it did very little to ease the variety of aches radiating across my body.  At least my head feels clearer without the haze of alcohol and the burn of adrenaline, which hopefully should help me make a decision about facing Seifer tonight.  I don't want to, but I can't avoid him forever, and given the choice, I would rather face him on my terms and not his.

Just when I finish tearing apart the roast, the doorbell rings in a loud tone, and not a polite once or twice, but four times in quick succession.  I sigh at the interruption that requires me to wash my hands, a task that apparently takes too long for the unwanted visitor since a rhythmic series of knocks begins before I even turn off the water.  Grumbling under my breath, I grab a towel to dry my hands while walking to the front of the condo, and without bothering to glance through the peephole, I jerk open the door to glare at the cheerful annoyance in my life.

"Oh thank goodness, you're--"  Selphie's bright expression promptly fades to horror when she gets a good look at me.  "My God, Squall, what happened to your beautiful face?!"

Not impressed by her descriptor, I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms over my chest.  "What do you want?"

Purposefully ignoring my question, Selphie continues to prod, "You know, I didn't see your motorcycle downstairs.  Are you trying to avoid someone?  Don't tell me that you got into more trouble than you can handle."

"It's nothing like that," I insist before she thinks to assign a police detail to watch over me, or worse, offers herself as my bodyguard.  Selphie may be good at holding her own, but I've gotten caught in the crossfire once before.  Glancing down at the slight bulge to her warm yellow jacket, I can't help but to think that I'd be safer without the woman around to protect me.

"Well, _something_ is obviously wrong," Selphie argues heatedly as she reaches for my bruised eye, but wisely leaves it alone when I shy away from her touch.  "Honestly, some days I wish you were the girlie-girl that the morons at the station claim you are.  Then I wouldn't have to worry about you as much as I do."

Fighting the instinct to point out that I never asked for her concern, I keep my voice soft when I ask again, "Is there something you wanted, Selph?"

Selphie huffs in surrender, though I doubt the issue is truly over.  "Really, do you think I would bother you if it wasn't something important?"

Before I can mention that her definition of 'important' tends to differ from normal interpretations, Selphie steps to the side and makes a show of effort when dragging a battered file box into view.  The old cardboard bulges with a haphazard collection of manila folders, confidential papers, and color photographs, and even without reading a word from that box, I know exactly which case Selphie has brought to my door.  Apparently old age has finally caught up to Cid if he felt comfortable enough to let this amount of information out of the police station, not to mention allowing a petite woman like Selphie to be the box's guardian.  While she's a demon in a fair fight, the young detective hasn't learned the lessons necessary to handle rabid reporters who get a fresh scent of blood.

Pulling my eyes away from the box, I step back into my condo and leave the door open for Selphie.  "I have dinner to finish.  You can talk while I work."

"O-oh, what's on the menu?" she asks while tugging the box inside and then locking door behind her, still confident in her theory that someone is out for my blood.

Not waiting for my reply, Selphie drags the box across the floor in a show of weakness that doesn't agree with the small detail that she climbed three flights of stairs with that box and doesn't show a sheen of sweat for her effort.  I imagine she wants me to feel guilty and offer her some dinner in exchange for not helping with the obviously heavy box, but I've played her game before, and it's impossible to be rid of the energetic woman until the early hours of the morning if I let her stay.  Most days, I wouldn't care one way or another, but I have enough to stress my mind without Selphie making things worse.

"Uh oh," Selphie singsongs when leaving the box next to my couch.  "You're giving me a look that says I'm an interfering third wheel."

I glare at her for the assumption that isn't completely wrong, but certainly inconvenient.

Selphie laughs while stepping to the counter that divides the kitchen and living room.  "What have you picked up this time?  A handsome Hollywood doctor with a winning smile?  A hunky fireman who adores children?" she asks with a woman's imagination.  "But you know what?  I don't care, as long as he isn't another one of those blond morons you keep around for a week and then discard like the trash they are."

I don't bother replying to her observation, and instead focus on tossing the shredded beef into the skillet.

"Oh God, Squall, you _didn't_ ," she bemoans.  "How are you supposed to meet Prince Charming if you keep playing around with the village idiots?"

"That isn't your problem."

"Mo-oh, one of these days, I'm going to find a quality man for you and then you'll understand what it really means to love and be loved," Selphie pledges, and while it sounds more like a threat to my ears, it also means that she's willing to leave the topic alone for the rest of tonight.  "Now, about that help I need..."

"You've been moved to the 'Johnny Strangler' case."

"Impressive as usual," Selphie says in a controlled tone that suggests she isn't happy about the additional responsibility.  While most of her colleagues would be excited about being involved with a high profile case, Selphie is the type of person to wish that the world was a better place and that bad guys were caught before they could hurt others.  I imagine she has already butt heads with others on the case who are more focused on catching the killer than remembering the young lives he has stolen.

"I thought you had more than enough help on the case," I comment while pouring beef broth into the skillet and adding some flour to thicken the mixture of juices from the onions and precooked beef.  Once everything begins to boil, I can turn my full attention to the detective and her situation, but not until then.

"You'd think so with how jam-packed the station is these days, but we're coming up dry, and with that boy being killed Monday morning, Captain Kramer thought it would be best to get some fresh eyes on the information we have."

I pause while stirring.  "Monday?"

"Yeah, didn't you hear about it?  The news was all over it by Tuesday, a few hours after the boy was found."

I almost laugh, knowing that my time since Tuesday has been spent avoiding Seifer.  I may have heard something, but I didn't have enough focus to realize that the media attention had switched to a new death and not on the 'Johnny Strangler' case in general.

"You sounded kind of funny there, Squall.  Is there something important about Monday?"

My mind immediately goes back to early Monday morning and Seifer's broken voice when he said that a boy was dead, but I can't be certain if he was dreaming of this particular victim or a different child from another part of town, or if I think about it, the boy could have been from another country for all I know.  In truth, I have no understanding of how Seifer's visions work or what their limitations may be, which I should rectify if I want to continue helping him... Rather, if Seifer will let me to continue helping him, and that is a bigger unknown than the powers he controls.

"Seriously, do you know something?" Selphie continues to prod, truly a detective who has the instinct to know when information is being withheld.

I hesitate while considering my response.  "I'm not certain, but once I am, I'll let you know."

Selphie scoffs loudly and demands, "What the hell is that suppose to mean?  There's another _dead boy_ , Squall, and who knows how many more before we catch this guy.  If you know something--"

"Bad information is more dangerous than no information," I warn the desperate woman.

Selphie grumbles some harsh words under her breath, but she doesn't fight me for the little information I have.  Instead, she waits impatiently with a drum of her fingernails against the counter, something I ignore while slowly stirring the contents of the skillet.  Eventually, the liquid begins to boil, which allows me to cover it and turn toward the pouting woman.  I motion toward the living room and to the box she left next to the leather couch.

"Tell me what you have."

Selphie looks over her shoulder at the mess of paperwork and folders, and with a pensive expression, she says, "You know, it's kind of sad to see how everything we have can be placed into a box like this.  It really doesn't seem like a lot."

"I have worked with less," I say in a casual reference to the last time she asked for my help.

The brunette glances at me for the comment, and showing a grateful smile, she argues, "I thought you didn't like it when I come to you with impossible cases."

I shrug in the silent reply 'as if that matters,' especially given her shamelessness when it comes to taking advantage of my few weak points.  I'm not quite certain why I continue to show a front of resistance whenever Selphie asks for help, but I suppose that I can't make it too easy for the detective.  If I did, she'd probably end up on my doorstep every other day with a new box of folders, a pleading expression, and an empty stomach.

Selphie moves over to the box and pulls out a few folders with a noticeably tender touch, particularly around the photographs.  "Obviously, I'm not out to solve the entire case.  Since the last boy was found, Captain Kramer assigned me to research these boys and figure out where they came from, what they did for fun, and other stuff that can give us a connection between these boys and their killer.  The sad thing is that we still don't even know their real names, and honestly, I'm getting a little sick of using 'Johnny.'"

Uncomfortable with her somber tone, I step in front of the petite woman and gently take the folders from her hold.  "They have names, Selphie.  We just need to find them."

Bright green eyes look up at my face, and though tentative, Selphie manages a relieved smile.  "I knew that I could rely on you."

From there, Selphie guides me through the box of mostly copies and printouts, nothing that is a surprise given how many people are working on this one case.  Only a handful of folders are about the boys directly, the rest dealing with the dump sites and various tips that haven't provided much more than 'I saw a boy with a man in a store yesterday and I think it was the one on the TV.'  Deciding to focus on the boys for now, I study the included photographs that aren't copies, but in full glossy color to show everything of the boys and the surroundings in which they were found.  Selphie hesitates when pointing at an autopsy picture that shows a birthmark on the second boy's shoulder, and I feel a moment's anger at Cid for putting her through this.

With my first glance through, I understand why the police are having a hard time.  The boys didn't share much in terms of physical features, only that they had dark brown hair.  A couple of them weren't particularly 'pretty' for young boys, so it didn't seem likely that a sexual predator was playing around.  Their ages ranged from seven- to ten-years-old, which seems a little broad, although their heights may have edged on the small side and made the killer believe they were about the same age.  Their clothes, while cheap and somewhat tattered, are clean for active children, making me doubt that they were all runaways like the media believes.  Instead, the boys seem rather unremarkable and I wonder if that's why they were ultimately selected, because no one would notice if they were gone.

Knowing that Selphie wouldn't like the theory, I don't say anything straightaway and continue to go through the material with her, hoping for some different answers to come to mind.  Between arguments of what deserved consideration, I finish the beef stroganoff and give Selphie a serving of the dinner, which disappears during her tirade about how parents should love their children or else have their reproductive organs removed.  While I doubt loving a child is that simple, I don't say anything against her need to vent out some anger over the mystery that no one has claimed these boys as of yet.

And then I hear the heavy stomping of feet as someone runs up the cement stairs.

Once recognizing the sound, I immediately glance at the nearby clock, and though the time is later than I thought, it's still an hour earlier than when Seifer should be home... assuming he didn't leave early this morning, and God knows that I was too exhausted to notice when he actually woke up and left.

"Squall?"

I look at Selphie and take notice of her concerned frown, but before I can make the vague statement that everything is fine, a key slides into the lock of the front door and turns with a harsh snap.

" _Loire, are you here?_ " Seifer yells when shoving the door open and rushing inside.  Though green eyes first look to my bedroom, my last point of escape, Seifer quickly finds me seated in the living room and grins a threatening smile.  "I've got you now, you fucking bastard _."_

Unable to move, I stare at the clueless blond and distractedly wonder how many of my adolescent fantasies involved those very words, though with an entirely different inflection.

"Get down on your knees!"

Startled by the unexpected command, I look over and find Selphie suddenly standing in front of the couch with her weapon drawn and aimed for the defenseless blond.  While I probably should be afraid for Seifer's safety, I'm more surprised that Selphie decided to pull out her revolver in the first place.  I seem to recall her reluctance when being issued the gun in her early months on the police force, and now, to see it steady in her hands is a sight I never imagined witnessing.

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa_!" Seifer says with raised hands, clearly not prepared for the appearance of a firearm.  "Watch where you're pointing that thing!"

Not shifting her gaze or aim one bit, Selphie asks me, "Is this the bastard who gave you that black eye?"

Seifer frowns at the question, but his focus isn't on Selphie for her wild accusation.  Instead, vibrant green eyes follow the lines of my cuts and bruises with a darker kind of anger than when he first barged in.

Annoyed at their excessive reactions, I explain to the pair, "I went after a bounty last night and things got messy, but it's nothing that can't be cured with some ice and a lot of aspirin."

In a strange moment, both Seifer and Selphie show similar expressions of skepticism toward my explanation.  When I don't respond to their distrust, they glance at each other, and as if reaching the same silent conclusion, Selphie lowers her revolver in sync with Seifer lowering his hands.  Selphie turns to face me directly and plants a fist against her hip in a frustrated pose.

"You stupid man, why didn't you explain all of that _earlier?_   I really thought you were hiding from an abusive boyfriend and with this guy barging in without warning..."  Selphie pauses at her own statement, and with a tilt of her head, she ponders out loud, "Wait a minute, I locked that door when I came in, which means... He has a key?  To your precious home?"

Before I can bring the situation under some resemblance of control, Seifer takes a step forward to regain Selphie's attention.  "I know what it sounds like, but Loire is just helping me out of a tough spot and giving me a place to stay.  We're not..."  Seifer trails off for a moment of thought before repeating in a softer tone, "We're not anything more than two guys who knew each other back in high school."

Her lips slightly partly, Selphie stares with wide eyes at the blond.  "Say that again."

While I inwardly grown at the sign that things are about to go further downhill, Seifer continues forward without a clue.  "What, about us going to high school together?"

"No, no, the first part," Selphie corrects while edging closer to the man.  "About how you know what this sounds like."

Seifer glances at me with a wary flash of green, the blond getting his first hint that something is wrong.  "I... know what it sounds like?"

"I _knew_ it!" Selphie exclaims as she darts forward and hugs one of his arms.  "You're Handsome!"

With eyebrows arched high in both surprise and amusement, Seifer replies with his typical crude charm, "And you're a smokin' hottie who looks amazing with a gun, but I'm not really looking for a fling these days."

Laughing, Selphie pounds a light fist against his chest.  "I don't mean your _looks_ , although they positively surpass my expectations."

"Okay, now I'm lost," Seifer admits while looking to me for help.

With a bored sigh, I direct a wave at the woman attached to Seifer's arm.  "This is Selphie Tilmitt, a shining example of the detectives employed within the Garden police force."  I wait a moment for a light of recollection to enter green eyes before I explain further, "'Handsome' is her nickname for an anonymous caller who provides tips about events that have yet to happen."

Seifer chokes slightly and tries to cover it with a chuckle.  "So what, this guy thinks he sees the future or something?"

"You can't fool me," Selphie declares with a direct stare at the blond.  "I _know_ your voice, especially that inflection of yours when you get all flustered.  You're Handsome, no doubt about it."

Trying to hide my smile, I watch with interest as Seifer struggles with the necessity to deny his 'Handsome' status.

"Look, I don't know who you think I am, but I'm just a guy... a _normal_ guy."

Selphie smiles pityingly at the blond.  "No, you're not normal, but that's fine.  You have a special gift and a beautiful heart that makes you help people when others would run away. _Oh_ ,speaking of that, did you hear from Squall how we found that sweet little girl you told me about?  She's such a beauty, just like you said, and you should have seen her angelic smiles whenever I played with her.  I almost didn't want to give her up!"

Seifer stares down at the woman, clearly pushed off-balance by Selphie's determination.  "Seriously, I don't know what you're talking about."

Not losing her smile at the obvious lie, Selphie nods and pats his cheek.  "You do, but I think I understand. _You_ , however," she says when turning to face me, "You owe me some answers about what game you were playing when I gave you those recordings.  While I thought it was a little funny for you to want them, I didn't think it was because you knew the owner of that voice."

I don't respond to the threat, not at all encouraged by the prospect of having that discussion.

Selphie pulls away from Seifer's side, and with a long stretch, she moves to the table.  "Well, it looks like I'm in the way after all, so I'll just gather my things and get out of your hair."

"You're leaving before we get anywhere?"

Selphie sighs at my question, but still gathers the folders spread out on the coffee table.  "We're not the only ones to be stumped by this case, and honestly, I wasn't expecting a miracle by coming to you.  One of these days, that bastard is going to make a mistake and we'll nail him to the wall by his testicles.  Today might not be that day, but it's coming and I'll have my hammer polished and ready to go," she announces with a flare of true sadistic desire.

While a frustrating reality, there is a reason why serial killers can repeat their immoral acts for years before getting caught.  Maybe they have the Devil watching their backs or maybe it's simply a matter of them having no real connection to their victims, but this isn't the first time a murderer has been allowed to walk the streets despite his crimes.

Though reluctant to leave the case alone, I pick up the file from the latest murder and accidentally let a photo slip out from between the collection of papers.  I bend down to pick up the picture with the intention to return it to the folder, but a large hand grabs my wrist the moment I stand up.  Seifer doesn't say anything right away, but instead stares with unnaturally bright green eyes at the close-up of the boy's face, trapped forever in peaceful sleep.

"What's his name?" Seifer demands, his hold tightening to a level that adds another bruise to my collection.

"We don't know," I reply in an apologetic tone.  The simple question is more than enough to assure me that this is the boy who was killed in his vision, and while I know little about his dreams, I recall Seifer's anger and frustration over not figuring out the boy's name.  Bothersome emotions swirl in my chest at my inability to provide him a name better than 'Johnny.'

Overhearing the question, Selphie inches close.  "Do you recognize him?"

Like a startled animal, Seifer jerks backward and stares at the woman with instinctual panic.  It's a fleeting reaction, but even as he collects himself, he continues to move away and slowly shakes his head in denial.  "Sorry, I _can't_... I can't help you.  And right now, I need a shower, so if you don't mind..."

Recognizing his intentions, I drop the folder onto the pile in Selphie's arms and hurry after the fleeing blond.  Before he steps fully into the bathroom, I'm behind him and prevent the door from blocking my entrance.  Though he glares at my intrusion, Seifer doesn't try to overpower me and kick me out.  I assume Selphie's earlier show of her weapon is the reason for his good behavior, not that I particularly think he could outmaneuver me in the first place.

"What the _fuck_ , Loire," Seifer growls when the door closes behind me.  "You're allowed to hide whenever you want, but I can't have a moment of privacy in a God-damned _bathroom_."

I take a moment to glance over the blond, the man still wearing his coat and boots from his long walk home, which doesn't help his claim of coming in here for the singular purpose of taking a shower.  "You shouldn't be afraid of Selphie.  She won't force you to give more help than you're willing to give."

"That's not the _point_ , Sherlock.  The _point_ is that I _hate_ the way people look at me when they think I have all of the fucking answers and I _don't_.  I don't even know that boy's _fucking name_ , and I'm supposed to somehow _help_ her?  Help _you?_ "

"I never said that you had to."

"But I _want to_ , you dumbass.  More than anything, I want to control these powers and do something right with them, especially when it comes to kids."  Seifer rakes his fingers back through his hair and clutches onto the golden strands.  "Do you have a clue what it feels like to watch someone suffer time and time again, and not be able to do a damned thing about it?"

"... A little bit."

After a startled blink at my response, Seifer swears under his breath.  "Sorry, I keep forgetting about your mother.  I guess I like living in a fantasy world where I actually helped to save her."

"I wasn't talking about my mother," I say softly, not wanting to say the words, but they come anyway.

Seifer stares at me for a long moment, his eyes still the uncomfortable green from when he recognized the dead boy from the dropped photo.  It's perfectly reasonable for him to be angry at me, especially when I've been trying to avoid this discussion for three days, but I was hoping he would jump on the opportunity and not consider the reasons why I would give him the easy opening.  When the hell did Seifer stop being predictable?

After a deep sigh, Seifer pulls his hand from his hair and reaches out to brush his fingertips beneath my bruised eye.  "Did you really get this from some kind of bounty hunter thing?"

I hum out my positive reply, unable to truly react with his warmth caressing my sore flesh.  It's unfortunate that my instinct to shy away from Selphie's touch decided to fail me now, despite Seifer's larger hand and rougher skin.

"That's a relief," he says with a slight smile.  "You wouldn't believe the shit my plague of a father was spouting.  He was dancing in the streets and cheering about how he messed you up something good.  Seeing you like this, I got all sorts of nasty thoughts about how to hurt him back."

My heart pounds a painful beat at the words that could be easily misunderstood, but I won't let myself believe that Seifer cares about me in the way I want him to.  This is about his constant battle against his father and nothing more.  "Actually, the black-eye is from collecting Biggs.  My knee is bruised from when, I assume, your father pushed me down the stairs."

Green eyes go wide at the announcement.  "Tell me that you're joking."

"All I know is that I was pushed by something I couldn't see."  When Seifer continues to stare at me in disbelief, I ask the medium, "Has something like that happened to you before?"

"God, no," Seifer breathes and moves his hand to my throat.  I don't know whether it's by design or chance, but I notice immediately when he strokes my skin like he did the last time his father's ghost attacked me.  "I guess I've heard of poltergeists and the like, but I've never seen a spirit actually _touch_ a living person before, let alone hurt them.  Frankly, the idea scares the shit out of me."

"It was just a push," I say in an attempt to alleviate his worries.

"At the top of the stairs, if my father was speaking the truth."  When I shrug at his amendment, Seifer slides his hand to the back of my neck.  "I'm going to make you a protection charm, a strong one, and I want you to stay here in your home until I can find something suitable for you."

I scoff at the request.  "I'm not going to be trapped in my own place because of a ghost."

"He tried to push you down the stairs, Loire.  What happens when he pushes you into oncoming traffic?  You may see the bus coming, but you won't have a clue that my father is behind you.  And trust me, he won't stop trying to hurt you until you're dead."

With a sigh at his obvious concern, I offer in exchange, "I have no plans for tomorrow, but I can't promise you anything in the event something comes up."

Seifer grumbles something under his breath, but he doesn't press me for a solid pledge.  Instead, he pulls away and starts to remove his long coat.  "Y'know, you still owe me a few explanations."

And finally, the discussion I've been dreading is here.  "I highly doubt that I'm the first person to be blinded by your better qualities."

"No, but you're not a mindless cheerleader, either," Seifer argues while tossing his coat over my shoulder.  "I've never seen you do anything without some thought first, and it makes no sense for you to want me.  You're a quality guy who deserves a true thoroughbred--not some workhorse with a bum leg who should've been shot years ago."

I breathe a laugh at his analogy.  "Thoroughbreds are inbred and only know how to run.  What do I want with a person like that?"

"That's not what I mean and you know it," Seifer says with a scowl.  "Just tell me this, Loire: what the fuck do you want from me?  Were you hoping for something more by letting me stay here?  Some kind of special repayment?"

"I'm not that stupid," I say in soft annoyance, both toward Seifer and toward my pathetic emotions.  "If it was simply a matter of you being evicted, I probably would have left you there.  I didn't want to be involved in your life again, but when I heard your voice, I needed to look for you and know that you were okay.  That would have been enough for me."

"But I wasn't okay," Seifer supplies when I avoid saying those words.

"No, you weren't."

Seifer eyes me for a long moment while judging my intentions.  "Let's try this one last time: why are you doing so much to help me out?"

To give myself a reason to avoid his gaze, I carefully fold his coat over my arm and needlessly smooth out the wrinkles.  "I want to give you a life worth living again."

"And what's your gain in something like that?"

"I'll know that you're alive."

Silence follows my honest answer, and while it's nothing I expect Seifer to understand, I only need him to believe me.  In all reality, I don't have the right to force Seifer to live when I can't understand his powers or how they torment him, but I want him to live.  I _need_ him to live, if only to keep my heart soothed and under my tenuous control.

With that thought, I raise my head and meet the intense stare of green eyes.  Amazingly, I don't see the confusion or distrust I was expecting from the cynical man, but beyond that, I can't determine what he is actually thinking.  There's something in his expression that I haven't seen before, which has become more frequent as of late.  If I had to put a name to it, I would say that Seifer looks... apologetic, but with a sharper edge.

"You know," Seifer starts in a helpful tone, "Fuujin thinks this is a terrible mistake."

"If it is, then it's my mistake to make."

Pale lips curl up into a pleased smirk.  "I was hoping you would say something like that."

Though curious about his response, I'm not given the opportunity to question him when Seifer abruptly decides to remove both his buttoned shirt and undershirt in the same motion.  My few words leave me while staring at his bare chest and recalling that he was tanner the last time I saw him shirtless, a more innocent time when track-and-field occasionally coincided with football practice.

"I wasn't lying about needing a shower," Seifer comments at my lost composure.  "I hate smelling like work when I'm no longer on the clock.  And... well, can you blame me for wanting to wash off that feeling I got when looking at that boy's picture?"

With a second wasted on remembering his original reaction to that dream, I offer a slight shake of my head before I turn around and reach for the doorknob to leave Seifer to his privacy.

"Hey," Seifer interjects before I have the chance to leave.  "Tell Calamity Jane out there that she should be careful while hunting down that child-killer.  There's something very, _very_ wrong about that guy.  I've never seen something like it before, and I'm sorry, but I hope I never see him again, even if it means that I can't help you."

Staring down at the doorknob, I struggle with his apology and ultimately tell the man, "I don't want your help if you think that's the only way you can give it.  You have more worth than that."

While I can feel green eyes focused on my back, Seifer doesn't speak out in retort or anything else to convince me to stay.  With nothing else to say, I step out of the bathroom in a quick move and close the door behind me.  It's almost a relief to hear the shower starting a couple seconds later, proving that Seifer doesn't plan to follow me.

"Is he alright?"

Reminded of Selphie's presence, I look at the brunette and notice her box on the coffee table, somehow looking fuller than when she first came here.  "He'll be fine, and he wants me to warn you to be careful when chasing after this murderer.  The man sounds dangerous."

Her eyes widen at her theory about 'Handsome' being proven, the woman probably assuming that Seifer would never admit his powers given his previous outburst.  Once that initial surprise passes, however, a small smile crosses her lips.  "While he has a good voice and all, I'm a little surprised that you jumped on him so quickly and convinced him to live with you."

"It's not like that," I remind her, and when she shows a disbelieving grin, I say, "He's straight, Selph."

Selphie lets out an interested 'oh' when looking at the closed bathroom door, but then her clear green eyes shift to me when a second, more subdued 'oh' passes over her lips.  "Squall, you know I love you, but you should really rethink how you choose the men in your life."

I glare at her for the unnecessary comment, and reconsidering any notion to help with her box, I motion toward the front door.

Selphie laughs at my obvious snub, and with the strength I knew she had, she picks up the box from the coffee table and follows me to the entrance.  While I hold open the door, Selphie sneaks in close to me and kisses my unmarked cheek.  "Pass that along to Handsome for me, okay?  And tell him that he can call me anytime," she adds with a wink.

I sigh at her overdone flirting.  "Be careful out there."

"Aren't I always?" Selphie says brightly, and with that, she steps outside and heads downstairs with a slight hop to her step that is tempered by the box in her arms.

I wait a few moments to listen for any telltale sounds of her slipping on the cold cement due to her carelessness, and admittedly, a part of me is worried about Seifer's father deciding to test his developing powers on the small woman.  But nothing sounds as I stand in the open doorway, and with a frustrated huff, I realize that I must have the honor of holding the ghost's full attention.  I close the door, and after a moment's hesitation, I turn the deadbolt before glancing at the bathroom door.  I briefly recall over a week ago when I first brought Seifer here and how I heard his voice resonating within the small tiled room.  His cheeks were red with embarrassment when he answered my knocks, and it still makes me smile to remember the rare expression.

Sadly, that's all I'll have once everything is done--faded memories to add to my collection--and some days I wonder if I'm strange for not expecting more.

"What does it mean to be gay?"

Seated across from the silver-haired teen, I watch him with an unimpressed expression for the question that I already knew was coming, but I have to give him some credit for having the nerve to ask it in the middle of a diner that isn't as wide spread nor as loud as a typical restaurant.

Truthfully, I wasn't expecting to hear from Riku again or at least not this soon after parting ways.  I may have given him my card for this very reason, but the tense teenager seemed like the type of person who is absolutely determined to handle his problems on his own, even if doing so only makes things worse.  His reckless solution of dealing with his awkward crush is a prime example, but that shouldn't have been enough to make the teenager change his ways.  Near-misses never count when it comes to life lessons.

"Being gay isn't much of a mystery," I say in response to his question, "but you already know that."

Riku scowls at my unhelpful reply and bows his head a little such that long bangs cover his eyes.  Overall, the kid looks like the average teenager with unruly hair, a bad habit of under-dressing for the weather, and a pair of pants that would fall to his knees if it weren't for the belt holding them up.  But while he may be average in style, his face has an exotic attractiveness that is only going to bring him trouble in the future, especially when he realizes that he'll always be approached by the women and men around him, but never by the one he truly desires.

While Riku decides where he wants this discussion to go, I calmly scan the diner in search of a large blond who won't be pleased to see me.  Less than a day has passed since he warned me to stay at home, and while I didn't make a promise to do so, I know perfectly well that Seifer won't remember it that way.  I could have avoided Ward's Place altogether, but in truth, I specifically chose the diner as a meeting place _because_ Seifer is here.  If I'm going to play this game of chicken with his dead father, I might as well have Seifer around to warn me when the punch is coming.

"I don't know if I actually like Sora the way I think I like him," Riku eventually says while playing with the straw of his soda.  "We've always been friends, but most of the time I treat him like a little brother.  I mean, he's a brat when you come down to it, but he has a good heart and a great laugh.  I've spent most of my life watching out for him, but lately, I get these random thoughts about... more."

When he leaves it there, I supply, "And you want to know if it's real."

Riku breathes out in frustration and leans forward on folded arms.  "Sora trusts me, and I'm afraid that if I say or do anything, he'll just follow along with it.  When I was a kid, I decided to run away and I easily convinced Sora to come with me.  We were only gone overnight, but Sora was real quiet the whole time.  He does that to me when he doesn't like what I'm doing, not that I notice until it's too late.  It rained throughout the night, and by morning, Sora started to get sick.  Even then, he didn't tell me to take him home, but instead made me promise to not leave him."

"Sounds like you're good friends," I comment purposefully, and it doesn't come as much of surprise when pale eyebrows furrow in response.

"Then, you also think--"

"What the _fuck_ are you _doing_ here?"

While Riku jerks up straight at the inevitable interruption, I simply glance to the side and take note of Seifer's dark scowl that I've witnessed before, but not particularly directed at me.  Granted, it loses its effect with the blond carrying a tray packed with sundaes and milkshakes, but the anger is true enough.  I probably should have spent more time considering the consequences of coming here.

"Holy shit," Riku swears once recognizing the blond.  "You _work_ here?"

Blatantly ignoring the teen, Seifer says in a low tone, "I thought you said you would stay 'home' today."

"Only if nothing came up," I remind him.

"Oh please, whatever is wrong with this kid could have waited another fucking day or two.  Why are you risking your neck because he's going through puberty?"

After a glare at the blond for his words, Riku turns to me and asks worriedly, "Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"In a sense, which is why I decided to meet where Seifer can look out for me."

Seifer scoffs at my attempt to downplay the situation, but with the ice cream melting on his tray, he doesn't have the luxury to lecture me further.  "You better be here when I get back, or I swear to God, I'll push you in front of a bus myself."

While the blond waiter hurries off, Riku continues to show a concerned expression.  "I hate to say it, but I think your boyfriend is right."

I snort at his assumption.  "Seifer isn't my boyfriend, or did you miss that part of the conversation the last time we met?" I ask even as I openly watch Seifer deliver his load to a large table surrounded by teenage girls, a volleyball team if the trophy in the middle of the table can be trusted.  Like a true salesman, Seifer has a charming smile whenever the occasion calls for it, and by the look of those girls, I imagine this place will have a few more repeat customers on the days Seifer works.

"No, I know what you both said, but... he tried to feed you some of his _pie_ ," Riku says as if that was somehow the defining part of a relationship.  Hearing for himself how ridiculous it sounds, the teen quickly amends, "And it's the other stuff, too, like how angry he was about you getting beaten up in the past.  He also seemed more than okay with the idea of two guys being together."

"I don't think we're here to talk about Seifer and me," I remind the teen, something that makes him frown and shift his gaze to his soda.

"Are you sure?  I mean, it seems pathetic to talk about my problems when you have bigger things to worry about."

"Perhaps, but I'm already here."

His frown softening, Riku silently accepts the fact that I chose to meet him and that he shouldn't waste the opportunity.  After another moment to return to his previous thoughts, Riku says, "You know, I don't really care about what happens to me; it's Sora I'm worried about.  What if my feelings aren't real, but before I figure that out, I've already dragged Sora into it?  He _trusts_ me so much..."

"Have you considered he has his own reasons to trust you?"

"I already told you--we're practically brothers, and it's not like he has a real family to depend on."

Though curious what he means by that statement, my train of thought is interrupted when Seifer abruptly sits down next to Riku and drops a plate with a double-stacked burger and a heap of fries onto the table.  "It's about fucking time," Seifer declares before grabbing the burger with two hands and taking a large bite.

"The hell-- Did you take someone's order?" Riku demands with a disapproving scowl.

"Give me a break, Puberty Boy," Seifer grumbles through a mouthful of food.  "Zone made me this lunch fifteen minutes ago, but that table back there had to go and order desserts on me.  Each and every one of them.  They were giggling through their orders, too, as if I was going to risk jail time by taking one of them home or something completely idiotic like that."

With a pale eyebrow lifted at the rant, Riku glances in my direction for support.

"Let him eat," is the best suggestion I can offer, already witnessing how swiftly Seifer's mood can change when he's hungry.

"Don't patronize me," Seifer objects before taking another bite.  "So, what is it this time, kid?  You getting sex pointers or something?"

"What the-- What is _wrong_ with you?" Riku asks, a question that has more pitfalls than the teenager is probably prepared to handle.

Before Seifer gets further than a predatory smirk, I interject, "Riku is having doubts about his feelings."

"Doubts?  Over that spiky-haired munchkin who nearly bowled you over with a hug when we brought you home?"

"His name is Sora," Riku grumbles.

"Whatever you say, kid," Seifer replies while wiping sauce from the corner of his mouth.  "All I know right now can be summed up into two things.  First off, you're pretty shitty at making getaway plans.  Second, that munchkin has been making faces at you for over a minute now."

Riku stares at Seifer with a bewildered gaze until the blond points at the window.  Riku turns sharply to look outside and is immediately confronted with the distorted face pressed against cold glass.  Admittedly, I noticed the younger teen several minutes ago, however he was only pacing the sidewalk at that point.  I missed his decision to approach the window since I was too focused on Seifer, something that isn't too surprising, but disappointing nonetheless.

"Sora..." Riku groans in embarrassment.

Even though he shouldn't be able to hear his name, Sora pulls back from the window and flashes a broad smile through the glass fogged by his breath.  Then, with little time to waste, he pushes away from the window and moves hurriedly toward the entrance of the diner.

Panicked, Riku turns with the instinct to act, but Seifer takes a deep bite into his burger and chews slowly as his declaration that he has no intention to budge.  The silver-haired teen scowls at the man's interference and warns in a low tone, "Don't say _anything_."

Seifer smirks around his mouthful of food, not at all threatened by the teenager.

Before Riku can try a different method of silencing the blond, his friend comes into sight and waves with a hand poorly protected by fingerless gloves.  While I know Riku has a year on the boy, Sora seems about a head shorter than his friend and overall too small for his age, something that is disguised by haired spiked in all directions.  The illusion is also supported by clothing that doesn't quite fit his body, leaving an inch of his forearms bare and his socks visible when he walks.  Either the kid had a growth spurt recently, which I doubt, or else he comes from a family that doesn't have the money to spare on new clothes.

Reaching the table, Sora smiles in an open fashion that is a strong contrast to his more reserved friend.  "Heya, Riku.  What're you doing all the way out here?"

"That should be my line," Riku replies a bit coldly.  "Weren't you going to spend time with Kairi today?"

" _We_ were supposed to go see a movie with Kairi, but you bailed on us, remember?  You've also been acting strange, just like you did last week."  His smile gone, electric blue eyes glance between Seifer and me before Sora asks, "Did you decide to buy some help with running away this time?  Because if that's your plan, I'll call your mother right now and tell her that you're being a dumbass twice-over."

While Seifer snickers into his burger, Riku looks at his friend with an ever-suffering gleam to his eyes.  "I told you that I'm not going to do that again.  And for your information, these two are the guys I told you about, the ones who stopped me at the truck stop."

Blue eyes opening wide, Sora immediately focuses on me.  "Whoa, you're that private detective Riku's mom hired?  She said you spent, like, two minutes in Riku's room before figuring out where he went.  You're just like one of those TV detectives, but y'know, they have scripts to make them look smart and you don't."

"That's enough, Sora," Riku says with a hand shielding his eyes.

Amused by Riku's embarrassment, Seifer points at the empty space next to me.  "Why don't you join us and have a seat, kid?"

Even as Sora accepts the offer and plops down on the padded bench, Riku argues, "Sora can't stay long."

"I can't?" Sora asks with innocent confusion.  "I don't remember having anything else to do today."

Grumbling under his breath about clueless brats, Riku demands, "What are you _doing_ here, anyway?"

"I thought you were planning something, so I decided to follow you, duh," Sora replies with a roll of his eyes.  "The real question is what're _you_ doing here and why are you acting so weird?  Do you always hang out with old guys when you're not with me and Kairi and the others?"  With a blink of realization, Sora shows a contrite expression when amending, "Uh, not that they seem _that_ old."

I shrug at the insult, not particularly offended since I can remember a time when I also thought being thirty was practically time for retirement... not that thirty is around the corner just yet.

"It's none of your business," Riku defends.

"How isn't it my business?  Aren't we best friends?  Even if you ran away, I'd come look for you, y'know?  No matter what!"

Riku's expression falters in front of the spiky-haired youth, but he doesn't say anything while avoiding the intense gaze of blue.

"Stop worrying, munchkin," Seifer comments after licking the last tastes of his burger from his fingers.  "The kid is just here for some love life advice."

Already pale skin blanches at the announcement, but it only makes blue-green eyes more intense when Riku recovers from his shock and glares at the tactless blond.  It doesn't last long, however.

"You have a love life?"

The question is stated in a pathetic voice, and when I look at the younger teen, it's hard to not associate him with a beaten puppy.  Well, that should make things easier for Riku, assuming he gains the courage to admit everything to his friend.  Or, judging by the look of Seifer's expression, Riku may not get much of a choice to wait until he is ready.

"I _don't_ have a _love life_ ," Riku answers heatedly, but Seifer doesn't let him off that easy.

"Well, of course he doesn't have one _yet_.  He's after another guy, so of course he needs some pointers first.  That sort of thing can break an ass if it's not done right."

" _You **asshole**_ ," Riku nearly yells when trying to punch the blond, but given the close quarters of the booth, his fist glances off Seifer's cheek without any real damage.

"Hey now, how is that suppose to make me play nicer?" Seifer asks while making certain to trap the teen's wrist.

Riku snarls, apparently beyond words.

Watching everything with wide eyes, Sora asks, "Is he telling the truth?  Are you... gay?"

His anger dispelled by the blunt question, Riku glances at his friend before quickly looking away.  "I... I don't know."

"And you told them... You told _strangers_ about it before you were going to tell _me?_ "

"That's not--"

Sora bangs the table when standing up, and after directing a heartbroken look at the speechless Riku, Sora turns and proceeds to run out of the diner, collecting odd glances in his wake.

"Damn it, get out of my way," Riku demands while shoving at Seifer, and though his natural instinct to be stubborn flashes in green eyes, the blond surprisingly pushes out of his seat to give the teen an open path.

As Riku chases after his friend, Seifer pivots around the table and takes the vacated seat at my side.  "Shit, were we that dramatic as kids?  It's so damn tiring to watch," he comments while grabbing one of his fries.  By the disappointed scrunch to his nose, I assume the fried food had gone cold and was no longer appetizing.

"You do realize that, even if they get together because of this, Riku will never give you the credit."

"I'm disappointed that you think I had good intentions.  See, I had this revelation about how that kid is going to be a legal adult before his buddy there.  Can you imagine his expression when the kid finds out that he won't be able to _touch_ his under-aged lover for over a year?  It'll be _classic_."

"That's not why you did it," I say when his voice doesn't quite match his story.

After a second attempt of a French fry, Seifer sighs at his cold lunch and pushes it aside.  "I guess it got me a little irritated to see that kid doing exactly what you did to me.  It's unfair, you know, to have someone love you and not have a fucking clue."

"Are you saying that you would have accepted my confession without overreacting?"  When he doesn't immediately respond, I add, "Or that your friends, if they found out, wouldn't have made my life a living hell for approaching you?"

Seifer scowls at the realities of our past, but insists, "You were stronger than that.  You never hid, and I don't like the fact that you hid from me."

I shrug, knowing that he's making things simpler than they actually were.

"All I'm saying, Loire, is that things could have been different if you had said something to me."

"Different?  How, exactly?"

Seifer stares at his plate as if the question had greater depth than I understood it to hold.  The facts are simple--Seifer was a quarterback with a hunger for women.  The only possible outcome of revealing my desires to the blond would have been a sharp rejection that I would have carried with me into the present day.  And given his question about my sexuality when I offered my help the other week, I have no doubt that Seifer would have refused to stay with me if he had any clue about my hopeless feelings.

Perhaps coming to the same conclusions, Seifer scratches the back of his neck in a frustrated manner and complains, "Forget it, I don't really know what I want to say.  But just so you're perfectly aware, I'm still mad at you for leaving the condo.  You could have gotten yourself killed, and knowing my luck, the police would've pinned me with your death."

Conceding his point, I offer, "Then what if I stay here until you're done with work?  Would that ease your mind?"

Seifer glances at me before his lips slide into a smirk.  "Were you lonely without me?"

"Don't make assumptions," I warn the blond.  "I just don't like being confined to a single spot because someone else says so."

"Hn, I can understand that feeling," Seifer comments with a briefly distant look to his eyes.  "But hey, that should work out for the better.  I stumbled across this street vendor on the way to work and she had some interesting jewelry for sale.  Once I finish my shift, maybe we can find you something to wear as a protection charm."

"I don't wear jewelry."

"You had an earring back in high school," he reminds me.  "And this way, it'll be easier for you to keep it on your body at all times, despite any of your attempts to 'accidentally' leave it behind for one reason or another.  I understand you want to help people, Loire, but for once, you've got to consider your own best interest."

"... Fine," I reluctantly agree, and with that agreement, Seifer pushes up from the booth and collects his unfinished plate.  He offers a 'see ya later' before walking off, and as I watch him go, I ask under my breath, "Why did he have to say things could have been different?"

Seated in a relatively comfortable tree, I carefully reposition my camera to the side and lean back against the heavy trunk.  It's a fairly common night to find me in a tree or some other vantage point within view of a cheap motel, particularly the ones that unofficially charge per the hour.  For whatever reason, many cheating spouses seem to be of the assumption that they have more privacy in rundown motels than in the high-end hotels.  The actuality, however, is that bribes go a lot further with poorly paid motel workers and the doors to the rooms often lead directly to the outside.  A high-powered camera and a sheltered vantage point are all it takes to catch a cheating husband or wife in the act, which would be much more difficult within the higher security and enclosed spaces of most hotels.

Thus far tonight, I have captured photos of a husband and mistress going into the motel room, but the money shots typically happen when such pairs leave the room, thinking for all the world that they got away with something.  The unfortunate piece of that reality is that I have to wait for their business to finish, which can last anywhere from thirty minutes to several hours.  I may charge by the hour, but some days, it's just not worth it.

With nothing else to do, I pull out the necklace hidden under my jacket and brush my thumb over the heavy pendent, a habit that I developed a week ago when Seifer purchased the piece of jewelry with his tip money.  I was reluctant to have him spend his newly earned money like that, but Seifer insisted with the claim that it was his fault my life was in danger, and therefore his expense.  The pendent itself is a roaring lion with its mane flowing down into a cross-like sword, and honestly, I don't think it's something I would have selected for myself.  Seifer, however, fell in love with the story told by the street vendor about 'Griever,' the supposed name of a dark lion that was the faithful servant to an honorable knight.  He was obviously played by the vendor, but I still surrendered to his clear excitement.

Shadows play within the etchings of the mane, but despite the limited light, I can still see the flecks of dried blood trapped within the deeper cuts.  Seifer had wasted no time to perform his 'magic' on the pendent, which thus far seems to be little more than bleeding on an object.  The fact his blood was wasted on metal particularly bothered me, but I trusted his belief in the protection charm and placed it around my neck without a moment's hesitation.  I noticed its abnormal warmth immediately, which made me think of my mother and her claim that she could feel Heaven's touch within her shawl.  Strange how that same warmth only makes me think of Seifer and how much I want the real thing.

Interrupting my thoughts, an abrupt buzz sounds from the pocket of my jacket, the unexpected occurrence causing me to waver slightly on my precarious perch.  Annoyed at being caught off guard, I jerk my cell out from my pocket, but then waste precious seconds while staring at the name displayed on the screen.  I gave Seifer his cell phone almost two weeks ago, but he never used it and even made me suspect that he threw it out.  Idiot, why is it so hard for him to admit that he needs help on occasion?

Forgoing a proper answer, I ask straightaway, "Is something wrong?"

Silence flows over the line before a weak laugh sounds.  <"Of course, because I wouldn't call if everything was alright.">

"Not after midnight, and not when I'm on a job," I reason against his sarcasm.

Seifer doesn't say anything for almost ten seconds, only his shaky breaths coming through the phone.  <"... When do you think you'll be back?">

"I'm not certain.  It might not be until morning."

A soft curse sounds at my answer, followed by more silence.

"Seifer, what's wrong?"

<"... I had a bad... a _really_ bad dream, and I don't..." >  He takes a deep breath and painfully admits, <"I don't know if I should be alone right now.">

His decision to call me should make me happy on some level, but I know perfectly well that I'm a last resort in Seifer's mind and not his first choice when it comes to things like this.  For him to be pushed to the point of contacting me, he must have dreamed something truly terrible.  Knowing that, there isn't really a decision to make between this job and Seifer.

"I'll be there in thirty minutes," I say and hang up before he can change his mind.

~ > < ~

Somehow, I resist the urge to take the stairs three or more at a time, something that would only disturb the neighbors at this late hour.  Though I feel like it took forever to get here, I'm well ahead of the thirty-minute estimate I gave Seifer and I'm fairly certain that I'll have a ticket or two in the mail from speeding through intersections.  The ride itself is mostly a blur, my mind instead focused on trying to figure out what Seifer could have seen in his dream.  This is the same man who saw Heaven and was mortified at needing my help; at this point, I can only imagine that he has been shown Hell and doesn't care anymore.

When I reach the last flight of stairs to the third level, I instinctively slow down and watch my steps just as the air around me condenses and drops several degrees in temperature.  In sharp contrast, my necklace grows warmer against my skin, almost uncomfortably so.  While I haven't been touched by the vindictive spirit since last week, I find it more disconcerting to experience the effort that Seifer's protection charm is exerting to protect me from his father's ghost.  It makes me wonder if I underestimated the dead man's hatred, and therefore underestimated the threat he presents.

The moment I touch the doorknob to my front door, the cold air begins to dissipate and recedes completely when I slip inside.  I briefly lift my hand to the heated necklace in appreciation, but then quickly turn my focus to the partially open door leading to Seifer's room.  I knock softly against the wood to announce my presence, as well as to push the door open a little further.  Within seconds, I discover that the courtesy was wasted on an empty room, which is a worrisome sight given the chaotic state of his bed.  I almost leave before I notice some purple fabric sticking out from beneath the sheets that had pooled on the floor.

Unable to leave the toy there, I step into the room and pull the dragon out from its hiding place, but momentarily lose my breath at the sight of the stuffed animal.  As if disemboweled, the seams defining the dragon's stomach are torn and its cotton innards hang out in a rather disturbing manner, especially when I know that the toy is meant to protect Seifer from lost spirits.  My heart speeds up at the thought that Seifer's father may have gone crazy at the blond's act to protect me and decided to go after Seifer in his anger.

Cradling the damaged toy, I step out of his room and call out Seifer's name, unable to keep out the rough edge of worry.

"... In here."

The quiet declaration makes me turn and stare at the open doorway that leads to my bedroom.  Doubting my ears, I walk slowly across the condo and stop at the doorway to glance inside, immediately finding Seifer seated on my bed with one of my pillows held tightly in his arms.

"Sorry," he mutters without looking at me.  "I couldn't stay in my room."

While I should point out that the living room or kitchen seem like more viable options than my bedroom, the weight of his broken toy feels heavier than it should in my hand.  "What happened, Seifer?"

"I think I met Death for the first time," he replies with an odd inflection to his voice, "and he didn't like me very much."

I stare at the blond for his statement, uncertain if he is being literal or figurative with his answer.  Normally, it would be ridiculous to think that Seifer met with Death, but this is the same man who honestly believes he has been to Heaven.  While I should reject such things as impossible, my heart makes me believe his word and I hate that it's so easy for the blond.

Seifer exhales a long breath and straightens before finally looking at me, his eyes glowing a strange luminescent green in the dimly lit room.  "You don't believe me, do you?" he asks dejectedly.

I can't respond to his question, my gaze immediately dropping at the sight of his throat covered in the deep bruises of someone who has been strangled, a sight I never wanted to see on a loved one again.

Seifer frowns at my stare before, with a jolt of surprise, he lifts a hand to his neck.  "Are there marks?  Tell me that there aren't marks."

Unable to confirm his assumption, I meet his softly lit eyes and ask again, "What _happened?_ "

His mouth parts as if to answer, but Seifer changes his mind with a shake of his head.  Releasing his grip on the stolen pillow, he pats the mattress in a clear request for me to sit at his side.

Shrugging off my jacket, I drop the item onto the bed and then take a seat on the mattress, though a little further away than Seifer indicated.  I don't trust myself to be closer to the hurting man than necessary.  "I found this in your room," I say when handing the purple dragon in Seifer's direction.

He stares at the stuffed animal, but doesn't take the toy.  "It's my fault he's like that, and now he's useless."

"The damage isn't that bad; most of the tearing is along the seam.  I could fix it in the morning."

"Don't bother, Loire," Seifer says bitterly.  "After all of these years, the spell on the stupid beast was pretty weak.  He pushed himself too hard trying to protect me tonight and his magic shattered.  He's nothing more than fluff and fabric now."

"Can't you place a new protection spell on it?"

He breathes a laugh at the suggestion.  "It doesn't work that way.  A protection charm can only be created for another person.  I don't understand it very well, but it's kind of like a shield made of spiritual energy.  If I had a charm made of my own energy, it would be redundant and completely pointless since it's the mix of energies that protects the living from the dead."  Seifer reaches out for the dragon and fingers a small wing.  "And now, I have nothing left to protect me."

His words make my charm feel heavier against my neck.  "Is it possible for me to make one for you?"

Going still, Seifer continues to stare at the purple dragon before he forms a small smile.  "You're a good guy, Loire."

At the implied rejection, I nod in acceptance that it was a long shot to even ask.  "Either way, this is still a gift from your mother.  It would dishonor her memory to leave it in this state."

Seifer's smile widens a little further and he finally takes the toy from me.  "You won't blame me for being a grown man with a stuffed animal?"

"I haven't yet."

The blond chuckles at the truth behind my words, but his amusement is fleeting.  As his expression becomes serious, his hand tightens around the torn body of the purple dragon.  "If I tell you want happened, will you promise to stay with me for the rest of the night?"

I frown at the odd request.  "Why?"

With an awkward shrug, Seifer says, "The last time I had a shitty dream, you had the magic touch to help me sleep again.  I'm crossing my fingers that you'll be able to repeat the magic act, especially with Dog being neutered like this."

While I'm still suspicious of Seifer demanding for a promise, his explanation is reasonable enough for someone who is afraid to be left alone with his justifiable fears.  And honestly, I don't know why I continue to pretend that I can deny him anything.  "I'll stay as long as you need."

His lips twitch into a vague smile at my promise, but the show of relief disappears when Seifer begins his story.  "That night when I dreamed about the boy being killed, I didn't see his murderer, but I definitely saw _something_.  Maybe it was the killer's deformed soul, maybe it was a demon enjoying the act of strangling an innocent child... Frankly, I don't know what the hell I saw except a shape of pure darkness that, somehow, could _see me_.  As in, this thing knew I was there and watching, and if I had more time and information, I could have stopped its fun."

When Seifer hesitates to continue, I ask carefully, "I assume that hasn't happened to you before?"

"Fuck, no," Seifer replies with a slight choke to his voice.  "That's why I wanted you to tell your detective friend to be careful.  Whatever she's dealing with, there are other factors involved than a guy who likes killing a bunch of kids.  To make things worse, that thing is an intelligent fucker, and tonight, it decided to show me why I shouldn't interfere with its play."

"It attacked you _here?_ I thought this place would protect you."

"To my knowledge, your home would do its best to keep me safe, but that's not how that thing came after me.  It was hunting for me in my dreams."

I stare at the large blond and wordlessly question how something like that could be possible.

Seifer sighs in frustration and rakes a hand through his hair.  "I know you want a vast amount of details, Sherlock, but I don't really feel like it tonight.  Just know this: I'm not psychic; that's not how my powers work.  Instead, I have a connection with dead people and _they_ are the ones bothering me with these dreams of the future.  They want to protect their loved ones, and that _thing_ took advantage of it.  Some poor lost mother thought her girl was going to be sliced and diced by that fucker, and when I was brought into the dream to save her, that thing was waiting for me."

Seifer swallows deeply before continuing his story, the bob of his Adam's apple drawing my eyes to his throat and the bruises there.  "I was in this little girl's body and that shape of pure evil spoke to me.  It was _angry_ , like a rage of black fire, and it kept blaming me for ruining its plans, which makes no fucking sense.  I mean, I didn't do anything to stop that boy's murder, and I didn't dream about those other boys, at least not that I remember.

"And then he reached for me.  He slipped through that innocent little girl and _strangled_ me when I never knew I could be touched like that within a dream."  Seifer takes a shaky breath, as if remembering what it feels like to have no breath at all.  "I thought I was going to die.  Shit, I almost prayed to be sent to Heaven at that moment, but then there was this flash of light and I felt my mother's touch just when that thing screamed and released me.  Everything got a little hazy after that, and the next thing I knew, I was on the floor of my room and Dog was like this."

With everything said, I close my eyes and struggle with the knowledge that there's nothing I can do to help the blond.  I can't track down his attacker and bring him to jail, I can't protect Seifer from being assaulted in his dreams, and I can't provide him the same 'magic' that his mother did so many years ago.  There's nothing I can do and I'm not accustomed to feeling so helpless.

"I want to help," I whisper while opening my eyes.  "Tell me there is something I can do for you."

Seifer studies me for a long moment, seeming to consider something that I may have overlooked.  He starts once, and then stops for another second before he finally asks, "What would you do if I told you that I'm not as straight as you think I am?"

Caught off guard by the random question, I stare at the blond and reply with the first thing that comes to mind--"I'd say that you were lying."

"I figured as much, but I'm afraid the truth is the truth.  My arrow may mostly point north, but there are a few kinks in the middle where I've considered trying my luck with a guy.  I blame my father, but really, I'm ecstatic to be a little on the queer side and not have any homicidal urges every now and again."

My thoughts still flying at the confession, I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to regain some control in this discussion.  "You're not gay, Seifer.  Every man questions his sexuality on occasion, but it doesn't mean anything."

"Huh, does that work the other way around?  I mean, do you ever think about nailing a hot woman just to see what the fuss is about?"  When I glare at Seifer for his question, he smiles with a glimmer of his old arrogance.  "Well, I hate to break it to you, Sherlock, but I've actually tried the whole gay thing.  Unfortunately, the guy I chose was just like me, more straight than gay, which meant that neither of us knew what we were doing.  It probably didn't help that we were drunk and thought things would be easier than they were."

I nearly groan at his deluded thought process.  "And you think that isn't proof that you aren't gay?"

"Trust me, if I wasn't at least partially gay, that little episode would have steered my thoughts clear of trying it again," Seifer argues.  "Although, I will admit that it tempered my urge to experiment, which may have been for the better given my self-destructive ways after I wrecked my knee."

Biting my tongue, I hold back any words that would only encourage Seifer's obsessive need to prove himself right, even if he's completely wrong.  "And what's the point of this misguided admission?"

Considering his response, Seifer looks down at his wounded toy and fingers the exposed stuffing.  "You know, even when I was being strangled, I didn't really think about how I was going to die.  Instead, I got angry at the whole situation, especially when I knew you would've been too smart to fall into that fucker's trap.  You would have never let that thing touch you, forget letting it threaten your life.  And when I finally came to terms that I wasn't escaping, I thought about how you'd figure out some way, somehow to avenge my death, even when you have no connection to the dead.... Even when I've been such a prick to you."

Seifer lifts his gaze and watches me closely when he says, "In that moment, I realized that you're one of my biggest regrets in this life."

I meet his piercing eyes, and while I have always wanted to hear some version of those words, I don't dare let that show on my face.  I have learned the hard way that near-death experiences don't have to make lives better, and instead can make things much worse.  If Seifer thinks the lack of oxygen to his brain has brought about an epiphany, then he's going to be very disappointed.

"You don't want me," I argue softly.

"What the... Were you not _listening_ to me?  As far as I knew, you were my last fucking thought alive, and you think that I _don't_ want you?"

I smile at his easy anger and wish that I could show the same emotions.  "You hate your powers and you're terrified by the idea of revealing your secrets to other people.  You also don't want to die alone.  To avoid that inevitability, you're settling with me, a person who already knows plenty about you and loves you anyway."

"That's _bullshit_ , Loire, and you know it."

I sigh bitterly at the proof that Seifer is simply fooling himself.  "And that is why I know you don't want me."

Green eyes shift as he rethinks his words and fails to find anything wrong with them.

"My name, Seifer," I say in a slightly exasperated tone.  "When have you ever called me by my given name?"

Startled by the revelation, Seifer stares with wide eyes at a point somewhere over my shoulder and loses himself in deep thought, probably attempting to find a point in time when he actually used my name beyond a descriptive purpose.  I already know that he'll only remember uses of 'Loire' along with a colorful selection of nicknames, his latest being 'Sherlock.'  It's actually a bit impressive how much he goes out of his way to not speak my name.

"It's not what you think," Seifer eventually says, his eyes still not quite meeting mine.  "I have a bad history when it comes to any kind of relationship, and while my dreams and powers are largely at fault, I'm not an easy man to get along with.  Maybe it's because I assume things are over before they start, but I tend to avoid getting too close to people.  I guess using last names is a part of that."

"How convenient," I scoff at his explanation as I effortlessly recall a handful of people he calls by their given name.  It may be petty, but my father is the first to come to mind.

Seifer finally faces me directly, the anger of his eyes failing to mask the unexpected pain my harsh response caused him.  "You're right--it is fucking convenient, but it's the truth that things tend to go wrong whenever I get attached to people.  Hell, you were shoved down the stairs by a ghost who shouldn't have been able to touch you in the first place!  Do you have a fucking clue how _scared_ I was when my prick of a father said that he almost got rid of you?"

I shake my head, refusing to fall into his pace.  "But why, Seifer?  Why would you care about me now?"

"Because..."  Hesitating, he bites the corner of his lower lip and forces his words when he says, "I think I have always loved you."

After a wasted moment of staring at the idiot, I push up from the mattress and try to walk away at his ridiculous confession, but Seifer has apparently regained some of his old speed since he grabs my wrist before I get further than a step.

"I know, I _know_ it sounds crazy, but..."  Seifer takes a calming breath before explaining, "I have this dream, this _one_ good dream where someone is always waiting for me.  If I open my eyes, the dream ends, so I haven't seen the person's face, but I still consider us lovers.  For a long time, I thought it was a predictable dream from my filthy imagination, but since I moved in here, I've had that dream twice.  The first time, he gained a voice.  The second time, his necklace brushed along my skin."

Feeling the weight of warm metal at my neck, I glare at the blond bastard for somehow assuming his explanation would make things better.  "And what, I should be _honored_ at taking a role in your wet dreams?"

"Wha-- _No_ , that's not what I meant, damn it," Seifer argues, somehow managing to be the offended person.  "If you know anything about me, it's that my dreams aren't normal.  Granted, I actually thought this dream _was_ a normal dream, but when I felt that protection charm at my chest, there was this weird... echo of sorts.  I could sense time in that pulse and I immediately realized that it was something from the future."

I clench my teeth in frustration, unable to tell the difference between the truth and fairytales when Seifer speaks the words.  "If it's the future, then why did your 'lover' just now get a necklace?"

"My dreams only go so far, probably because future events aren't exactly stable.  After all, if the future can't be changed, I wouldn't be able to save a damned soul and it'd be a lot of wasted effort on the part of the spirits who bring me those visions."

I stare into softly lit green eyes, something taunting me about his answer.  "And you've had this dream before?"

"Since high school," Seifer says without hesitation, and just when I realize the significance of his statement, he comments bitterly, "If I had known it was more than a dream, things could have been _different_.  Everything I have ever felt in those dreams could have been mine from the start, but I was too _stupid_ to know that my dreams are never normal."

"... You're making things simple again," I warn, afraid of my own emotions if I allowed myself to think about the years already lost.

With a slight frown, Seifer surprisingly agrees, "Yeah, I guess I am oversimplifying this shit.  I've made up a fantasy world in a past that I can't change; meanwhile, I seem to have forgotten that there's an important future directly ahead of us."

And that's his only warning before Seifer abruptly tightens his hold around my wrist and pulls on my arm while standing up from the bed.  As he leans forward, his other hand lifts to the back of my neck with the clear purpose of positioning my head to his preference, but it's a second that Seifer couldn't afford to waste in his ill-devised plan.  In a quick and direct move, I raise my open hand to the center of his face and shove his head back to a safer distance.

"What do you think you're doing?" I ask the blond, even though it's rather obvious.

"I _thought_ I was I trying to prove something to you," Seifer replies after slipping away from my interfering hand.

With a sigh at his one-track mind, I lower my hand to his throat and gently examine the finger-shaped bruises.  "You almost died tonight.  You're searching for comfort, and in your mind, I'm someone who wouldn't say 'no' to you, especially with your thoughts around that 'dream' of yours."

"Don't tell me what I'm thinking," Seifer growls, "especially when you're wrong."

"I know that people do impulsive things when they lose control of their emotions, and then they often regret what they did, even when it seemed like the answer in the first place."

Seifer doesn't say anything immediately, actually considering what I said before he lifts a hand to my chin and forces me to meet his piercing gaze.  "In other words, you can trust me in everything but this."

I avert my eyes, knowing how ridiculous it sounds that I can believe in his talk of ghosts and foreseeing dreams, but not in his suggestions that he wants to love me.  I can only assume it's because his visions have been proven time and time again, but no evidence exists that could prove his emotions are true and not a product of searching for the closest source of stability when his world is falling apart.  It hurts even more to know that his 'sudden realization' concerning his good dream is probably little more than a delusion supported by the stress of recent events.

Seifer breathes a quiet laugh at my silent answer.  "Shit, I have to say that I never saw that coming.  You know, it's kind of cruel of you to love me, but then not let me have that love."

Annoyed by his attempt to play the victim, I push back from the blond, but he jerks my arm to keep me in place.

"What if I kiss you in the morning?" Seifer asks, his expression perfectly serious despite his words.  When I have no reply, he explains further, "There's no way in hell that I'm sleeping tonight, which means I'll have plenty of time to let my head cool and honestly think about this.  If I end up kissing you, it won't be because of emotions, right?"

I scoff at his assumptions.  "You're incapable of acting on anything other than emotion."

Seifer smirks with a smug curl to his lips.  "I think I might surprise you."

I hold my tongue when the thought comes to mind that Seifer is constantly a source of surprises, but not in this particular area.

"In any case, didn't you promise to stay with me tonight?"

I frown at his reminder and the realization that he was planning from the beginning to confess his confused love.  "You _bastard_."

Seifer accepts the curse, his smirk fading into something uncomfortable.  "I may seem fine right now, but I know that the moment you're out of sight, I'm going to start thinking about how I have nothing left to protect me if that thing decides to attack me again.  I know there's nothing you can do, but I feel safer when you're around.  Maybe it's because you give me other things to think about."

I want to shrug off his words as if they meant nothing to me, but while I have no illusions of my love being answered, I'm weak when it comes to protecting the cursed blond.  Being in the same space as Seifer doesn't have to mean anything, and if it helps him in any way, then I should be able to endure it for a night.  As long as he doesn't continue this pointless drivel of his, of course.

"I interrupted your work, right?  Is it too late to help you finish it?"

At the suggestion, I glance at the clock and notice that it has been almost an hour since I left the motel.  "I suppose we could see if they are still at it, but there wouldn't be anything for you to do.  I'm there to take photos and I only have the one camera."

"That's fine.  Getting some fresh air would probably help to clear my head."

"You can't talk; it may attract the wrong attention."

"But of course."

"It's below freezing out there," I remind the blond.

"Even better," he says with a sharp smile.

I could argue, but it's not like I'm any smarter when it comes to needing to relieve stress.  "It'll be boring," I offer in a final, clear warning.  When Seifer continues to grin without reluctance, I sigh in defeat and point toward the stuffed animal left on the bed.  "Bring your dragon.  I can work on it while we're waiting."

Seifer's smile fails momentarily and is then replaced by something softer.  "You really are a good guy, you know."

I huff at his attempt to praise me when I can't help but think of the old adage that nice guys finish last.  It's something that will be proven once again when, by morning, Seifer will start to doubt his choices tonight.  I can already hear his words, that I was right and that I'm a 'good guy' who deserves someone better than him, someone who isn't the person I've wanted for all of these years.  The pathetic thing is that I'm going to hate Seifer for only repeating what I already know, and I don't want to hate him.  I don't... But maybe that was inevitable from the beginning.


	6. Chapter 6

[Seifer]

Squall's motorcycle eases into yet another curve up the mountain pass, and as we move farther away from the lights of the city, I begin to wonder why I came up with this not-so-brilliant plan to join the brunet on his stalking mission.  Sure, I didn't want to be left alone with the flashes of memories about the demon that tried to strangle me earlier tonight, but I should have taken another few seconds to figure out how to coax Squall into staying at home where it's warm and safe.

...But then I remember how the guy looked too much like a fox with his foot stuck in a trap, perfectly ready to gnaw it off in exchange for his freedom.

On any other night, I probably would have allowed him that escape, but with Dog broken and useless, I need Squall's presence more than an unimaginative guy like him could possibly understand.  To him, it's a simple case of me taking advantage of his inability to say 'no' to my whims.  To me... Well, I guess I haven't figured that out just yet.

What I do know, however, is that I've probably seen one too many horror flicks where idiots go into the forest during the darkest part of night and are never heard from again.  It doesn't help that my life has taught me that good, happy things don’t hide in the darkness.  There have been plenty of tenacious spirits, merciless demons, and vicious shadows, but no fluffy kittens that purr when receiving the slightest amount of attention.  Heck, knowing my luck, if a kitten did appear, it'd have a poisonous bite and scythe-like claws, forever ruining my ability to trust the innocent things in life.

And such is the direction of my thoughts when the roar of the motorcycle suddenly changes pitch, and I sit up straighter when Squall pulls the bike over to park on a wide shoulder meant for slower cars on the mountain road.  Even though I trust Squall to know where he is going, I linger while eyeing the darkened forest and wishing that I had my hands on a high-powered flashlight.  Or a shotgun.  Better yet, a high-powered flashlight mounted on a big-ass shotgun.

"Is there a problem?" Squall asks in a dull tone, the man still irritated at my poorly executed attempt to prove I'm not one-hundred percent straight.

Swallowing back my reply that there are plenty of problems with this scenario, I half-slide and half-fall off the motorcycle in a stiff move when frozen body parts refuse to bend properly.  As if mocking me, Squall dismounts from the bike with perfect ease, and after removing his helmet, he grabs a heavy camera case from a saddlebag.  The brunet says nothing as he heads for the nearby incline, and not wanting to be left behind, I jerk off my own helmet and drop it next to the bike before hurrying after the silent man.

It's kind of pathetic to look at the surrounding trees and see monsters that aren't there, but the climb is thankfully a short one.  The hill quickly crests into a ledge, and while Squall focuses on assembling his camera with a ridiculously large lens, I glance down at the shoddy motel that has no real purpose being here.  The ski resorts are another hour away, and the city isn't much closer.  It's almost as if the owners planned for this to be a hookup spot from the very beginning, which may be the depressing reality of the rundown building.  Where there is sin, there are people willing to take advantage of it, I suppose.

The abrupt sound of scrapping bark makes me turn sharply and look around a little too wildly before spotting Squall as he climbs up one of the larger trees like a damned kid.  Annoyed by my overreaction, I glare at the brunet while trying to figure out how I can blame him for setting off my frazzled nerves.

Once he reaches a sturdy branch, Squall notices my stare and sighs quietly before directing a beckoning hand at me.  It takes a couple moments before I realize that he wants the stuffed animal I have hidden within the safety of my coat.  I unzip my coat and pull Dog free, his broken and torn body held together with a strip of duct tape.  Despite his current state, I give my little guardian the silent warning that I expect no funny business between him and Squall, and when I don’t get an argument from the beast, I chuck Dog toward the waiting brunet.  Squall catches the winged dragon on the first try, and just like that I'm left alone to my own devices and overactive imagination.

With few other options for entertainment, I locate a nearby tree that looks acceptable as a place to sit and relax for a couple of hours.  Of course, I didn't consider that the ground would be frozen solid, but it's not like standing around on my bum leg would be any more comfortable.  I fiddle with my coat and scarf to cover as much exposed skin as possible. Eventually giving up on that endeavor, I rest my chin on a gloved hand and glance up at the man who has, somehow, made my life so much more confusing lately, which is saying something given how fucked up my life has already been.  I should be cursing and ranting at Squall for that, and yet it seems so much easier to just sit here and watch the attractive brunet as he carefully mends the cheap carnival toy my mother won for me so many years ago.

Following the movements of his sewing hand, I occasionally catch a glimpse of metal reflecting the soft light of the moon, the sight making me smile fondly as I recall the return of my good dream that had led to the purchase of Squall's protective charm.  Before that, I don't remember having my good dream twice in the same month, let alone in the same week, which made it a very welcomed relief given the rejection I felt with Squall going to great lengths to avoid me.  Even though he's a silent fucker, I had grown accustomed to his presence in our previous days together.

That second dream began the same way it always does—with my unseen lover caressing my body as if never seeing it before—and in that moment, I was struck by the revelation that there had to be a reason for the repeating theme.  When my lover pressed a kiss above my heart, it suddenly seemed obvious that each dream was possibly the beginning of a relationship. Unsettled by my theory, I did something in my dream that I had absolutely refused to do in years: I opened my eyes to look at the person with me.

The dream faded away rapidly at that point, but there was one thing I saw clearly; sadly, it wasn't the identity of my lover, but the metal necklace of a roaring lion hanging in front of my face.  I thought it was a pointless image at the time, but two days later, I lost my breath when I found the exact same necklace on a vendor's table.  Squall had scowled disapprovingly at my side, which probably means he thought I was enamored by the vendor's tale about 'Gyver' or whatever name she used, but it's not like I could tell Squall that I no longer had any doubts about the identity of my mysterious dream lover.  It was too big for me at the time, and it wasn't until my life was threatened that I could freely acknowledge how much I wanted that unknown future.

But God damn it, why does life have to be cruel enough to make me understand that I need Squall, and yet provide me with no way of explaining that to him without sounding completely trite and ridiculous?  If only the bastard wasn't so stingy with his love...

"Disgustin'," a voice spits behind me.

I jump a handful of inches at the grating voice, and then wince in pain when I land hard against the frozen ground.  Growling at my typical startled reaction, I glare over my shoulder at my bastard of a father.  "Whatever you have to say, I don't want to hear it."

The fatigue-wearing man bears his teeth in anger.  "Don't ya see what that freak is doin' to ya?  I told ya that he put worms in yer brain to give ya queer thoughts, and nowlook at ya—moonin’ over him like some whore."

"And let me guess, you have a problem with that?" I ask with mock interest.

Not appreciating my tone, the fucker growls, "Yer confused by that faggot and I won't let my boy go down the path of the Devil."

At first shocked, I have to smother my disbelieving laughter in fear of ruining Squall's stakeout.  "You _raped_ at least thirteen women and who knows how many men you pummeled to deathwith your fists, and you think that me loving another man is the Devil's work?  There's no way you are that deluded."

"Don't worry, boy, I'll save ya before yer lost for good," the ghost pledges as he glances upward and shows a vicious smile.

My humor is instantly replaced by cold terror when I recognize the smile the bastard showed while encouraging my mother to take her life.  I scramble to my feet despite frozen body parts and place myself between the deranged spirit and the idiot who put himself in a tree.  "I'll destroy you before I'll let you touch him."

Eyes empty of life focus on me, amused by my threat.  "When I kill that parasite, yer the one who'll get blamed.  In jail, yer gonna to learn _real_ quick that ya ain't queer and yer gonna fuck up the ones who are."  His smile broadens to something toothy and mean.  "I'm gonna really enjoy watchin' ya break their dicks, just like I did when they got too close, and yer gonna _love_ it."

I shiver at his words, not entirely certain if the ghost is speaking about a true future or one that is a fantasy in his diseased brain.  "How many times do I have to tell you that I'll _never_ become what you want?"

"Yer stubborn, just like that whore ya came from, but ya won't last.  Ya have my blood runnin' through yer veins, and no doubt, it'll shine when that faggot is good and gone."

The sickness in my stomach turns into something else, and with my hands clenched into tight fists, I wish for a moment that I did have the blood of a murderer if that's what I need to kill this bastard, even though he's already dead.  And I _know_ there is a way to get rid of him, but my mother never had the foresight to teach me that particular trick before her suicide... Or maybe she did have plenty of chances, but chose to protect me from the life that ultimately drove her over the edge.

The ghost grins a snake's smile at my frustrated silence and takes a couple lazy steps forward.  "Cute, boy, but don't get pretty little thoughts in yer head that ya can stop me, 'cause ya can't.  And this time, I'm not just gonna push that queer down a couple'a stairs."

I watch my bastard father's every move and focus on the thought that I want him gone.  None of him belongs in this world--his feet that don't disturb the ground, his fingers that twitch into stranglehold curves, his smile that doesn't show an ounce of humanity--and damn it, he should have been sent to Hell long before threatening Squall's life, long before pushing my mother into suicide, and long before I was even born.  He shouldn't have existed in the first place, and now I want him _gone._

The ghost slows to a stop, his pale eyes shifting in wary manner that encourages me to also scan our surroundings. The night seems a little darker, as if new shadows had come out to play, but it’s not like I thought the forest was particularly welcoming in the first place. Ignoring my paranoia and focusing on my bastard father, I beg for my powers to do something _right_ for once.  I need something that can finally help me, instead of slowly driving me insane; something that give me the strength to hurt this fucker once and for all.

"What'd ya think yer doin', boy?" the spirit demands in an almost fatherly tone, which only spurs my building fury.

"I think I'm going to fuck you up," I reply, my voice barely sounding like my own.

Incredibly, the ghost backs up a step at the threat, but doesn't show anything in his expression.  "I told ya not to get funny ideas."

"Oh, they aren't funny at all," I retort when I feel a subtle shift, a burn of unnatural energy under my skin that makes me smile in sweet pleasure.  Finally, finally, _finally_...

I charge forward with a raised fist and throw a punch at the face that has far too many similarities to my own.  The ghost doesn’t budge an inch while smirking at my approach, certain that I can't touch him. In the last fraction of a second, however, his expression loses its edge while his eyes shine with a faint light of disbelief.  My punch connects, and I almost cry out at the sensation of my fist smashing through a layer of ice and into freezing water, but any pain I feel is quickly forgotten when I see the damage I’ve done.

Like a ceramic mask, the portion of his face I had punched is gone and the rest is cracked to reveal inky darkness beneath.  A dull sulfur light glows from the corner of his broken eye, and then brightens when he stumbles away from me.  The ghost hisses an unearthly sound, and before I recognize his escape, he disappears in a wisp of smoke.  It's a vanishing act I have witnessed many times before, but unlike those times, a mournful howl echoes within the surrounding trees and a sudden gust of wind stirs up the snow and fallen pine needles.

Any amount of warmth I built up from adrenaline is instantly wiped away by that sound and cold wind, and without that extra boost of energy, I realize that I probably did something pretty stupid, but I haven't a freaking clue what.

After several very quiet seconds, the soft snap of something wood-like startles me into turning around with fists raised, but my reaction proves unnecessary when I find Squall a handful of feet away with his arms crossed over his chest and a booted foot placed purposefully on a pinecone.  I almost complain that he should've found a better way to gain my attention, but given my unsettled state, I doubt there was a gentler option that wouldn't have made me lash out.

Squall lifts an eyebrow into a questioning arc and asks, "Did you figure out how to hurt that father of yours?"

"Wha--?" I breathe in shock before I stop myself from falling into the same old trap of believing that the brunet is all-knowing.  "Oh, come on!  There's no way you could've guessed that.  Don't tell me... Did you see something just now?" I ask and then cringe at the hopeful note to my voice.

"I saw you," Squall replies as he moves forward with slow steps, "as well as heard you.  While I didn't catch everything, I know when you're arguing with your father.  It seemed rather heated this time."

"’Heated?’" I repeat with a scoff.  "How many times do I have to tell that he wants you dead?  And I'm not talking about the friendly, over-in-seconds type of dead, but the 'suffering from a gut wound for hours before choking on your own blood' kind of dead.  If I end up watching, it'd be like Christmas Day for the fucker."

Squall stops a few inches in front of me and glances down at my right side.  "One of these days, I should teach you how to throw a proper punch," he says, blatantly ignoring my concern for his life.

I lift up my hand and scowl at the state of my glove, the new leather torn and wet with blood.  "Give me a break, Sherlock.  You know damn well that I can throw a punch, but I was dealing with a _ghost_ here.  Y'know, not of this plane and all that?"

Squall doesn't concede my point when he places a hand beneath mine and lifts it to examine the minor damage.  It's nothing more than a few scrapes, but he uses a gentle touch that, unfortunately, reminds me of my dream lover's careful hands.  If only it wasn't so freaking cold and our hands were free of the barriers of leather and cloth...

"You didn't have to do this, not for me."

Distracted by a fleeting fantasy of the brunet being close enough to lick my wounds, it takes a moment to realize what Squall said.  "Heh, that's where you're wrong for once.  I lost the urge to fuck up my father a long time ago, but then you came back into my life and gave me a new reason to hate the bastard."

Stormy blues glance up through long bangs in silent disapproval of what the serious man probably considers romantic nonsense.  I have the immediate urge to react to his distrust, but I rein in that desire to instead pull my hand free from his hold and use my gloved fingers to brush aside the dark hair covering his eyes.  While I tend to avoid that frozen gaze in fear of judgment, I need Squall to look at me without obstruction and see that I'm not lying to him or feeding him the half-truths that come easily for me.

For his part, Squall watches me cautiously instead of rejecting my touch, and with that unspoken permission, I leave my hand at the side of his face, careful to not mark his pale skin with my blood.

"That bastard has been haunting me ever since he encouraged my mother to commit suicide, and I haven't been able to do anything to scare him off.  He has mocked me for my losses in football, kept me awake on purpose before big tests, and said the most repulsive things whenever I had sex with women, especially the ones I liked.  The only thing that made him go away was alcohol, and we both know how well that worked out."

With a frustrated breath, Squall asks, "What's your point, Seifer?"

At the suggestion that I'm rambling, I let my fingers drift to his long neck and reluctantly recall the time my bastard father tried to strangle the oblivious brunet.  "The point is that I've never hurt the fucker before now.  Sure, I spooked him last week, but even that was because he lunged at you.  After all these years of enduring his abuse, this is the first time I've had the desperate need to _do_ something about him."

When I notice full lips parting, I guess Squall's argument and plow on ahead.  "I know what you're going to say, and yes, there was also my mother's death, but I was too young to do anything.  By the time I grew into my powers, I had been ridiculed by the bastard for my failures at trying to exorcise him, _numerous_ failures,and I lost the nerve to fight him.  It became easier to ignore him lurking behind my back...

“That is, until he threatened your life."

Squall brushes aside my hand from his face, apparently not impressed by my explanations.  "There's no reason for my presence to make a difference."

"Well, I think there's one very important reason," I maintain with an ambitious grin.

"You're deluded if you still think you love me," Squall retorts, his nose wrinkling in distaste.

"And maybe I am deluded, but I know how it feels to be with you, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make those dreams into a reality."

"...You still believe that those dreams were about us?"

"Of course they are about us," I say as my eyebrows furrow at the absurd question.  "Do you think I'm making it up?"

Squall studies my face before saying, "Earlier, you told me that your dreams aren't your own, but come from the dead looking for help.  If that is true, then why would a spirit bring you that one dream time and time again?  It doesn't make any sense."

I stare directly into pale eyes, dumbfounded by the question that is, regrettably, logical and something I should have probably asked myself before bringing it up to the intelligent man.  All of my other dreams seem to come from spirits who want to protect a loved one from some terrible event.  While I hate those dreams, I understand why they push those futures onto me, usually mothers desperate to save... their children...

"God _damn it_ ," I curse when the obvious answer comes to mind, and then turn my annoyance to the dark-haired bastard.  "You did that on purpose to ruin the mood, didn't you?"

Squall doesn't say anything, but there's nothing in his expression to suggest that he knew what revelation he'd cause with his question.

"Who _else_ would give me those dreams, Sherlock, except my mother?  She knows more than anyone what it means to suffer with my powers, and the conniving woman must have figured out exactly what I needed to get through this life."  Overwhelming frustration fills my chest when I add, "She's trying to save me by getting that message through my thick skull, and what else is going to grab my attention faster than sex?"

Stormy eyes narrow at my theory, the lingering doubt irritating me further.  "Wouldn't it be easier for her to speak to you directly?"

A mean laugh leaves me at the suggestion.  "You're assuming she wants to face me after leaving me the fuck alone in this life."

With a sympathetic sigh, Squall doesn't press the matter, but I know he doesn't believe me, and that hurts more that the bastard rejecting my advances earlier tonight.  After all these years, the one thing I could depend on was Squall's belief in my powers.  He trusted me when no other sane person would, and God, I needed that so much in my life.  I _need_ it, and I have a feeling that this is exactly what my mother saw.

Frustrated, I grab onto the front of his jacket and beg shamelessly, "You have to give me a chance, Loire.  I've seen how much..."  My voice goes quiet when I hear my own voice and how the man's last name grates against my ears.  Damn it, how do I always manage to ruin the more important moments in my life?

Not commenting on the use of his last name, Squall pulls my hand away from his jacket and declares, "I don't have to do anything."

I close my eyes in surrender, and when I reopen them, I find his back turned to me as he walks toward the tree he had been sitting in earlier.  Thinking that he wants to retrieve his camera equipment, I decide to stay where I am and wait for Squall to make the move towards his motorcycle.  But instead of that obvious choice, the brunet jumps to grab a branch and pull himself back up into the tree.  Beyond stunned, I almost trip when running after the unbelievable man.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?" I demand, not fast enough to yank Squall back to the ground.

"Finishing my job," he says as if it were obvious.

"A ghost wants you dead, and you think sitting up in a tree is a good idea?"  When Squall simply settles into his spot despite my concern, I add on, "You don't even know if that cheating bastard is still banging his mistress.  They could've walked away at any point."

"They didn't.”

"Okay, fine, they’re still boinking like wild monkeys, but that doesn't make _you_ any safer in that freaking tree!"

Squall glares at me for my raised voice.  "The drop isn't that far."

"It is if you land on your _neck_ ," I argue, albeit in a slightly more controlled tone.

"Not likely," he claims while lifting his camera and focusing on the motel.  "In any case, you're here to protect me.  Or were you exaggerating the reason for your sudden ability to fight ghosts?"

"You fucking..."  With a growling breath, I hold back the damaging words that want to escape me. Even so, I kick out my frustration against the tree, wise enough to do so with my good leg.  Expending that touch of energy, I slump back against the sturdy trunk and fold my arms over my chest.  "Just so you know, this doesn't change anything.  Annoy me all you want, but I'm the one who knows what it feels like when we're together.  It's going to happen, whether you believe it or not."

When no reply comes to my vague threat, I sigh and gaze out at the snow-covered forest.  It should be a calming sight, but there's nothing that can soothe me when another dream has become useless to me.  As if to prove me wrong, something drops against my head, and startled, I reflexively grab the surprisingly squish-able object.  Once recognizing the purple dragon, I immediately loosen my hold and check Dog for any damage caused by my grab, and instead discover that Squall had finished his mending, making the little guy whole again.  I glance up at the confusing man, but Squall maintains the charade of looking through his camera without a single click of taking an actual photo.

I smile faintly at having my guardian returned, and while the spell my mother placed on him has been broken, Dog still has that comforting charm I appreciate after the worst of my nightmares.  Holding him against my chest, I look up to the cloudy sky and silently thank my mother for trying her best.  I know she won't speak to me, and I don't blame her for that, but it's good to know that she didn't give up on me even with everything she knows in the afterlife.

I should have never doubted that the stubborn woman would try to save me, although I wish she had a better plan than depending on Squall.  Obviously Squall doesn't want to be convinced of that same future which I need to be true, and without his cooperation, I'll end up returning to the person I was before he foolishly decided to help me.  I'm not entirely certain I could survive on my own again, not just yet, and I really hate how the image of my mother's knife suddenly comes to mind as if it were another option.

Pressing my mouth against Dog's head, I complain into his nonexistent ear, "Dang it, Mom, next time show me what happens _before_ I trick him into bed if you actually want me to make this work.  Got it?"

~ > < ~

We don't return to Squall's building until the sky lightens in a pre-sunrise fashion, which means those cheating lovebirds were at it all freaking night.  After seeing pictures of the middle-aged moron and his bimbo, I'm almost impressed that the man didn't have a heart attack with all of that activity. Impressed, that is, until I recall being forced to stand in the cold while keeping a look out for vengeful spirits, and I want to punch the fucker in his depleted nuts.  I can only hope that his neglected wife does the deed for me.

"Seifer," Squall breathes in annoyance, interrupting my little fantasy.  "We're here; let go."

Not realizing Squall had already parked and switched off his motorcycle, I consider his demand and decide that I'm too tired to play the obedient dog.  "That depends--are you going to run off and hide in your room if I let you escape right now?"

Squall doesn't say anything in reply, but I feel the tension of his body within my arms, and I don't like it one bit.

Angry and frustrated, I release the brunet and shove him forward while I climb off his bike.  "If you hate me holding you that much, get a fucking car," I complain while freeing the strap of my helmet.

Even though a visor blocks my view of pale eyes, I feel them all the same when I chuck my borrowed helmet at the side of his motorcycle and turn around to storm off in the direction of concrete stairs.  I make it to the first landing before I realize that I'm being an idiot and that it'll be difficult to protect Squall if I can't see him, so I slump against a wall and wait for the dark-haired man.  His boots sound lightly on the stairs, and when he comes into view, Squall pauses to stare with a glimmer of surprise and vague humor in blue-gray eyes.

"Hurry up, Sherlock," I grumble at the brunet.  "It's cold out, and I can't feel my fingers, forget my other favorite appendages."

Squall eyes me for another moment before he steps past and moves up the next set of stairs.  I follow after him, trying my best to keep an eye out for my bastard father by looking around the brunet and not directly at his slender figure, but it's a near futile effort given the sway of his hips with each step upward.  Lucky for me, I'm not completely hopeless, which means that I catch the movement of Squall's arm just before his gloved hand clutches the lion pendant hanging outside of his jacket.  My chest tightens slightly at the idea that Squall has decided to depend on me for something, though it's not like the guy has any other options.

"Your father isn't here, is he?"

Still distracted by the subtle sign of Squall's trust, it takes me a moment to register his question and then another to realize that he's right.  "I don't see him, but how the Hell do you know that?"

"The metal usually feels hot when I get this far.  I assume it's because of your father."

"You _assume?_ " I ask irritably, not the least bit pleased to hear about that little detail just now.  "And you never considered that it's because he's trying to _strangle your neck_ or attempting something _worse?_ "

"He hasn't been able to touch me," Squall comments while reaching into his pocket for the key to his place.

"Fine, he can't touch you, not at the moment, but that trinket I gave you isn't going to last forever against him," I argue, even though it feels like I'm talking to a wall.  "If you keep playing this dumbass game of chicken, he's going to win simply because _he's already dead_."

Squall pauses in the motion of opening the door and glances over his shoulder to almost look at me.  "You're that worried...?"

"God fuck, Loire, have you heard a single word I've said since that bastard became fixated on you?"  When the brunet simply stares at me in return, I dutifully reply, "Of course I'm worried, you moron, and I'm going out of my mind because you won't play it safe even for a _minute_.  How can I stop and _think_ and figure anything out when you're right smack in the middle of it?"

A soft 'huh' leaves him, but Squall doesn't expand upon whatever thoughts are bouncing around that head of his before he walks into his home, not that I really expect anything more from the pain in my ass.  Still, it would've been nice to get a promise that he'll at least pretend to be a little more careful, even if he just continues to do what he has always done.

I scratch a hand through my hair in frustration but immediately wince at the bend of sore knuckles.  Lowering my hand, I stare at the glimmer of fresh blood beneath shredded leather and feel my mood sober when unwanted thoughts come to mind.

Tonight, I may have done the impossible and protected Squall from a raging ghost, but with all of that effort to play the hero, I may have overlooked the obvious answer to keeping the dark-haired man safe and alive: I shouldn't be here. My bastard father has repeatedly given me the ultimatum to leave, but I ignored it for my own selfish reasons at the risk of Squall's life.  Maybe if I leave now and swear to never come back, the spirit will leave the brunet alone.

"Seifer?  Is something wrong?"

I look up at the call of my name and find Squall leaning out from the open doorway, his jacket and gloves gone in a sign that I've been lingering outside a bit too long, especially when I've been complaining all night about the frigid weather.  A weak excuse sits ready on my tongue, but the moment my eyes meet pale blue, I know that it won't work.  He may accept my lie and not force another word from me, but that's not what I need right now.  God help me, I need so much more than Squall playing along with my constant lies.

"Seifer..."

"It's my fault that you're in danger," I say as if Squall didn't realize that obvious truth.  "Ward has also been dropping hints like a load of bricks about how you own other properties that you rent out.  I was just thinking that maybe if I leave, you wouldn't have to worry about my father lurking behind your back."

Squall stares at me after the suggestion, his eyes colder than moments ago.  "Is that what you want?"

"... If it keeps you safe."

With a huff, Squall leans back against the frame of the open door.  "Then all that talk of protecting me was just that?  Talk?"

"God damn it, that's not what I'm saying here, Loire.  I'm saying--"

"That I'd somehow be better off when I can't see or hear the man who wants me dead?"

"All of this started because he hates the idea of me living here.  If I leave, he could give up on you," I try to rationalize, but once spoken out loud, it doesn't sound as plausible as it did in my head. Even if I could stay away from Squall, it’s not like the fucker has an ounce of honor left in his diseased soul. Dealing with the Devil would probably have better results.

Perhaps noticing how little I believe my own theory, Squall softens his expression and almost smiles when he says, "Come inside, Seifer.  I know you're cold."

With that simple statement, the pressure that had been building in my chest releases in a breath of laughter.  Only Squall could say something so important in so few words, and with that spark of inspiration, I remember my earlier pledge to kiss him after a night of considering what it means to love another man.  Squall didn't accept or even acknowledge that pledge, but his words create the desire and need to know the answer to that very question.  No matter how much I think I could like him, the physical aspect is a little too important for me, and I can't be certain if something more is possible with the brunet unless I know if touching him will drive me as crazy as talking to him does.

Some of my thoughts must show in my expression since Squall abruptly frowns and turns into the condo without another word.  Disappointed but hardly defeated, I follow after the difficult man into the warmth of his home, and with a final shiver at the cold, I close the door tight behind me.  When I remove my coat and bloodied gloves, soft energy brushes over my minor cuts and some of the ache fades at the doting attention that mirrors Squall's earlier concern.  I suppose it's cute getting that extra bit of love from his home, but it's not a replacement for something directly from the dark-haired beauty.

"It's light out," Squall comments from the kitchen area, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches me.  "Will that make it safer for you to sleep?"

Toeing off my sneakers, I snort at the innocent question.  "You shouldn't believe the crap from movies and fairytales.  While they're more active in the shadows, ghosts and demons won't let something like daylight stop them if they're determined enough."

Squall nods at my answer, and without asking anything more, he moves to his overly complex coffee maker.  He efficiently measures out the beans to make his patented coffee, a brew that always skims the edge of too strong, but still tastes good despite kicking a man awake.  Squall starting the coffee isn't a surprising act, especially when I have failed on several occasions to make the contraption work, but then the brunet has to go and pull out two mugs from the nearby cabinet.

I stare at those two cups on the counter, and while I should be relieved and maybe a little happy at the sight that Squall intends to sit with me as I avoid sleep, I instead feel confused and irritated.  Despite all of his hostilities and sharp words, he decided within a moment that he can set aside his fears about my advances to watch over my pathetic ass.  I don't know whether something like that makes him strong or naive, but whatever happens after this point, Squall can't say it's entirely my fault.

I step into the kitchen area when the first hint of coffee drifts into the air, and even though Squall doesn't look up or say anything, I know that he recognizes my approach.  I briefly consider how the dark-haired man could kick my ass before I can do anything productive, but those thoughts don’t stop me from continuing forward such that Squall watches me guardedly.

Too late, he decides to place distance between us, which lands him backed against the pantry door with my left hand firm against the stained wood.  It's a stupidly weak position on my part since Squall could easily jam a knee into my groin, but perhaps taking pity on my boldness, Squall simply stares with a quiet gleam to his pale, perfect eyes.

"What the fuck do you want from me?" I ask, my voice low and raw as a few too many emotions rise to the surface.

Stormy eyes continue to stare directly into my gaze, but Squall stubbornly says nothing.

"Is it the name thing?  Do you just want me to say your name?  Then fine, _Squall_ ," I say, unable to make it sound sincere. God damn it, this isn't the way I wanted to speak his name.  "Does that make you happy, _Squall?_ "

Crossing his arms over his chest, Squall scowls in a manner that demands, 'What do you think?'

"Then if your name isn't enough, what is?  You won't trust me when I tell you that I've been attracted to other men, you won't believe me when I tell you about my dreams of the future, and you won't let me _do_ anything to prove how I feel about you.  So you tell me, Squall, _what_ do you _want?_   Because I'm getting a shitload of mixed messages here."

He shifts his gaze to stare at a point over my shoulder, and while the silent treatment is nothing new, his eyes are bright with whatever thought he doesn't feel like sharing.

"Come on, Sherlock.  If you have some great insight as to why I'm not allowed to have you, then spit it out."

Regaining his attention, Squall glares at me with restrained anger.  "When I offered my home to you, you asked me if I was 'still gay.'  You almost refused my help because of that, and now, you want me to believe that you could have feelings for another man?  It's a bad joke, and I'm not falling for it."

Forgetting about that slip of my tongue, I curse under my breath and try to remember my mindset from that afternoon.  "In all honesty, Loire, I was a little too focused on what you'd want in exchange for helping me out.  I didn't have money or anything else of value, and as sleep deprived as I was, that was the only reason that made any sense for why you'd take me in."  I then recklessly add, "It's interesting, though, how I wasn't too far off the mark, huh?"

Squall scowls, but doesn't defend his decision to help me.  Instead, he says, "Gratitude isn't love."

"And that's what you think this is?  I'm so freaking _grateful_ that I'm willing to sacrifice my body in repayment for everything you've done?"  When Squall doesn't disagree with that theory, I bang a fisted hand against the pantry door.  "That's unfair, so _fucking_ unfair.  Why do you get to love me, but I don't get to return those feelings?  Why are you so privileged while I'm left in the cold?"

With a scoff, Squall argues, "I wouldn't call it a 'privilege' to want you all these years."

"Oh, then _that's_ what this is about," I say a little too eagerly.  "You have 'years' of loving me while I only have a couple of weeks, so there's no way my feelings could compare to yours.  But let's be honest here, Sherlock--how much face-to-face time is included in those 'years' of yours?  A handful of hours?  Maybe a few more?  Because right now, it sounds like you were attracted to me, made up a little fancy about who I was, and fell in love without ever really knowing me."

Steely eyes narrow at the accusation.  "We went to the same schools and you stood out.  Everyone knew who you were."

"In other words, you believed the rumors about me."

"And you confirmed half of them when I spoke to you for the first time."

I growl under my breath at his ability to defeat my every argument.  "Okay, fine, you had your reasons, but then why can't I have mine?  I have spent the last two weeks _living_ with you, and even when you're not around, I can't help thinking about you.  It's all stupid shit, too, like what you're doing and if you're going to stop by the diner, even it's just for a few minutes.  Why can't something like that lead to love?"

"Because... things like that don't happen."

"Then how else is it supposed to happen?  This isn't exactly the era of suitors and courting, you know. Hell, do you think drive-thru weddings exist because people take their sweet time falling in love?"

Squall lifts an eyebrow at the example, which admittedly isn't the best evidence to offer the logical man.

"Fine, the divorce lawyers have their offices across the street for the same reason, but you know that's not the point I'm trying to make here.  There isn't a clear line when love happens, and I'm not going to let you convince me that what I'm feeling isn't real."  I brush the dark chestnut hair from his face and gaze boldly into blue-gray eyes.  "Let me have one kiss."

"...What would that prove?"

I smile softly at the response that isn't a straight out refusal.  "Aren't you tired of not knowing?  After all of these years, don't you want to know if there's a chance of something more than whatever fantasies you made up?  Aren't you ready to have something real and incredible, or else move on and find someone better than a worthless ass like myself?"

"And a kiss would somehow solve all of that?"

Feeling encouraged, I inch closer to the brunet.  "It would be a start."

Stormy eyes shift slightly as Squall considers his options, and while it's painful to wait for his answer, I don't dare try to steal a kiss while he's distracted.  The prude would close up on me faster than a triggered mousetrap and with the same ruthless force, assuming I manage to slip in some tongue.  No, it's safer and more productive to show some patience, even if it makes me look like a well-trained dog waiting for a treat.

After too many silent seconds, Squall finally focuses on my face, but cruelly doesn't say a damned word.  Instead, he studies me with that expression he shows whenever he reexamines old cases, looking for new clues within a mess of information he already knows by heart.  I'm almost insulted that he has to think so hard about a simple request, but at least he's starting to take me seriously.

With an exhaled breath, Squall uncrosses his arms and places a hand at my chest.  "One kiss, that's it."

I should be ecstatic with his final verdict, but I immediately recognize his tone of voice.  It's the same one I used when I tried to quit drinking on many occasions, always saying 'one last beer, and no more.'  Damn conniving prick, if he thinks this one kiss is his first and final taste of his obsession, he's going to be sorely disappointed.

I bend in close to the brunet, our lips almost touching when I stare directly into blue-gray eyes and demand, "Don't you dare hold out on me."

Squall meets my gaze and counters, "I could say the same of you."

I chuckle quietly at his audacity, and with a smirk on my lips, I close that final distance between us.  His lips are cool and chapped from our stalking mission in the mountains, but unexpectedly, I'm not given much of an opportunity to explore the shape and taste of his flesh.  Instead, a warning growl sounds from Squall in the fraction of a second before his lips part and his tongue grazes against my teeth.  The aggressive attack almost throws me back in surprise, but I quickly wrap an arm around his waist in support and readily accept his challenge.

From instinct alone, I slide my tongue just beneath his and tease the softer flesh in a move that draws a sharp gasp from Squall. His reaction brings a chill to my spine when I recognize the sound as one belonging to my dream lover.  Then realizing my advantage in this game, I have to temper my urge to laugh out in victory, something that would bring a quick end to our kiss.  Settling for a deep hum of pleasure, I end up provoking the serious man into grabbing my shirt in a manner that undoubtedly creates a few claw marks against my skin.

After that, it's an interesting and practically educational exchange of techniques, and while I initially have the upper hand, I'm quickly reminded of my limited number of good dreams.  There's also the less pleasant thought that he has gathered plenty of experience between each possible future, but that's my fault, not his, and it's something that will have to be corrected starting now and forward... assuming Squall graces me with a chance beyond this one kiss.

That one thought takes away the excitement of finally having my way, and feeling sober, I move my hand from the pantry door and stroke the length of his neck.  At the first touch, Squall shivers beneath my fingertips and retreats very slightly—not enough to end the kiss, but to change it into something gentle and surprisingly honest.  More than before, I know this is the man I want, a partner who knows in an instant what I desperately need, and then somehow creates an echo in myself to return that favor.  Unfortunately, I don't share Squall’s intuitive nature to know what he needs, and with no other idea in mind, I simply continue to stroke his neck in a silent promise to protect him to the fullest of my abilities.

Abruptly and regrettably, Squall breaks the connection in a sharp move that doesn't allow a refusal on my part.  Not looking at my face, but somewhere to the side, he says breathily, "Something isn't right."

I get out a soft laugh but not the chance to point out that if he wants something more than a kiss, he just has to say so.  Instead, steely eyes move sharply beyond my right shoulder, and without a hint of warning, Squall slams his hands against my chest and shoves me backward with all of his strength.  My back hits the solid granite edge of the island's countertop, and unable to keep my footing, I fall to my ass and bang my head against a cabinet handle.

It hurts like a mother fucker, but none of that matters when something warm splatters against my face.

Then comes the jackal-laugh that never fails to make my stomach churn in disgust.

Despite the pain it causes, I lift my head with a jerk and immediately look for Squall, pleading to whatever God is listening that the stubborn brunet is alright, that he is alive.

All I see with my first glance, however, is blood.  Shiny crimson, viscous blood that contrasts darkly against pale skin... But my mind eventually catches up to the fact that Squall is still standing and not the least bit defeated by the gash between his eyes.  If anything, the blood only highlights the fury bright in stormy eyes as Squall glares at my father, or rather, at the large knife grasped within the fucker's hands.

"So much for yer little pussy charm, eh, boy?" the deranged spirit laughs, his toothy grin showing sharp, needle-like teeth in the void caused by my earlier punch.  "I jus' had to find a long enough knife to reach 'im, and wouldn't ya know it, the faggot had one waitin' fer me."

Dumbfounded, I can only stare at the phantom, unable to process the reality that the bastard has barged his way into Squall's home.  Tiny bursts of white energy shine around the ghost, but the protective home is unable to chase away the enraged spirit.  That the bastard has also learned to hold objects in this world proves further that my father has become stronger than an annoying wisp, but God help me, I don't want to believe it.

"Seifer...?" Squall asks in a justified 'what the fuck is happening here?' tone.

Unable to answer him, I stare at the knife supported by two hands and pray I'm not imagining the slight shake of effort by his forearms.

"What's that, boy?  Did ya think I was good and gone 'cause ya did this?" he mocks with a wider smile, the action causing pieces at the edge of his mouth to fall away and reveal more of his unnatural teeth.  "That ain't nothin' but some pretty clothin' from my mortal life.  Yer still my boy and I'll forgive ya once we're done cleanin' up here."

"We...?" I breathe, my brain still not running at full speed.

The ghost loses all sense of humor when he states lowly, "I ain't the one goin' to jail, son, and ya touch a few too many things in this here kitchen."

Time slows to a painful crawl once fear takes over my mind, and even though I scramble to my feet as fast as I can, it takes far less effort for my father to thrust his stolen knife toward Squall's exposed stomach.  A warning yell trapped in my throat, I watch as the bloodied metal flashes only inches away from vulnerable flesh... and then I'm reminded that Squall is anything but defenseless.

With a steady hand, Squall parries the knife away from his body, and once safe from the blade, he turns his hand to grab the handle.  He rips the blade from my father's grasp with the force required against a human opponent, but the forceful disarm proves far more than necessary against a ghost.  Given its extra momentum, the knife slams into a cabinet door and buries several inches deep into the stained wood, much to Squall's surprise and annoyance given the look on his face.

"Fuckin', cock-suckin' _bitch!_ " my father screams with a stream of other obscenities while backing away, his hands black and smoldering from where Squall had inadvertently touched him.

Able to breathe again, I hurry to place myself between Squall and the raging spirit, uncertain what other tricks the bastard could be hiding.  The role of protector, however, means that I can't examine Squall's injuries for myself, and it grates on my nerves to know that he's hurting and bleeding only inches away.

"I'm fine," Squall says in a tone that suggests I look as high-strung as I feel.

"You're _not_ fucking fine.  He could have _killed_ you right now, and what was I doing?  Sitting on my ass, worthless as ever."

"Then make certain he can't hurt me again," Squall argues.  At my derisive scoff, the brunet places a firm hand at the center of my back and says quietly, "You once told me that your mother had the power to remove spirits from this world, and if I understand what I saw last night, then I believe you share her power."

"...You said that you didn't see anything."

"I said that I saw you," he corrects in an offhanded manner.

"But what the fuck does that even _mean?_ "

After a few heartbeats and a couple of choice curses from the still ranting ghost, Squall decides to ignore my question and asks one of his own--"If your father eventually kills me, will you dream of my death before it happens?"

The 'fuck you' dies on my tongue when I turn around in reckless anger and get a good look at the damage my father has done.  The knife left a gash from above Squall's right eyebrow, across the bridge of his nose, and down toward his left cheek.  The blood spatter makes it hard to tell where the cut ends, but it's clear to see that Squall could have been blinded if the blade had gone an inch in either direction.  Squall is a lucky man, assuming you can call someone 'lucky' after being attacked by his own knife.

"What are you going to do, Seifer?" Squall asks in that infuriating tone he uses whenever he expects someone to do the right thing, no matter how impossible.  To make things worse, the prick always seems to get his way.

I reach out to brush my fingers along his bloodied cheek wishing I could wipe away the mess, but that can't happen until my father is out of the equation.  The bastard is my last obstacle to Squall, and with that knowledge, there's only one thing I can do.

"Don't put yer back to me, _boy_."

Not liking the grate to his voice, I turn around to face my father and place my body firmly between him and Squall.  The deranged spirit sneers at my continued defiance, his exposed amber eye shining with an ugly sulfur glow.  I probably should be concerned about the murderous thoughts behind his stare, but I find my eyes attracted to the white sparks of light that still surround the ghost.  It's almost ridiculous how Squall's home refuses to give up, but I shouldn't expect less of the devoted guardian.

"Ya _aren't_ lost," the bastard insists, and then adds with plenty of finger pointing, "Yer _my son_ and I will _not_ lose ya to some man-whore!"

"You know, I'm getting real sick of hearing you say that shit," I say in return.  "It's time to fucking end this."

"And whacha goin' to do, boy?  Punch me again?" he jeers with a broken smile that puts his needle-like teeth on display.  "That queer did more damage than yer pathetic glass fist ever will."

I stare at the ghost for his taunt, and while the words themselves are nothing new, I realize that the fucker is right.  He wasn't afraid of me in that forest; he was afraid of the darkness that had appeared while I begged for the power to defeat him.  Hell, it's not like I got warm and fuzzy feelings from those shadows, but if using them is what it'll take to get rid of this bastard...

The spirit gradually loses his smile as he watches me.  "That ain't wise, son.  Yer pea-brain can't control what it don't understand."

Not listening to his words, I notice that his posture has subtly changed from something aggressive to the stance of someone ready to bolt in a moment's notice.  I curse under my breath at the very real possibility that the fucker could escape before I do anything. Wondering what Squall would suggest to prevent that, I anxiously brush my thumb against the drying blood at my fingertips.

As if summoned, the desperate energy of Squall's home curls around my hand, and before I can react to somehow summoning the guardian, it slips away just as rapidly as it came.  Glancing down at my hand, the stray thought comes to mind that this is definitely Squall's home to tease me and run off like that, but a moment later, a harsh hiss escapes my father. With a jerk from my inattentive state, I look up to find that the protective energy has changed its tactic from attacking the ghost to wrapping around his legs in chains of white light, and my father clearly isn't happy about it.

Well, damn, I might have to be more careful with my thoughts around this place if Squall's home can read my mind.

Knowing that it's now or never, I focus inward in search of the power to summon the darkness that had appeared earlier tonight.  Need had brought the strange shadows the first time, so there's no reason to change my method now.  I think of how close my father came to removing Squall from my life, and touching the blood at my fingertips once more, I silently demand for that darkness to reveal itself.

And as easy as that, the shadows appear.

Unlike the forest, it's far more noticeable when the condo grows darker despite the morning sun peeking through some windows, and it becomes very apparent that the shadows don’t belong in this world.  Distorted, black-on-black faces and bodies are barely discernable against the walls, and as I gaze into that darkness, cold realization fills my chest and makes it hard to breath.

"Don't do this..." my father says in a voice that I've never heard from him, one that is nearly human.  Oddly enough, I feel a bit sorry for the bastard, but that’s mostly because I'm not going to change my mind.

"Is that what my mother asked from you?" I say in return, and when the spirit realizes that he's not fooling me one bit, he shows his true nature and sneers with a flash of amber light from his exposed eye.

"I gave ya _life_ , ya good fer nothing son of a _whore!_ " he snarls while jerking at his legs in an attempt to free himself from the chains of Squall's home.

"Then thanks for nothing," I growl in response, feeling pretty damn confident with myself... until nothing happens for several seconds.  Angry, I look to the shadows and demand, "Go ahead and fucking _take_ _him_ already, or do you _want_ him to escape again?"

After another annoying handful of seconds, I watch as my father struggles against his restraints and wonder if he's going to get away for a second time tonight, but then I hear a quite whisper that makes the hairs on my neck stand on end.  A shadow slides along the ground until hovering beneath the spirit, and from that darkness, a small, black hand juts out from the floor and grabs onto a booted foot.  The scream from my father should be damn amusing after all of these years, except I'm more than a little worried about unleashing demons upon the earth and not knowing how to send them back once I’m done.

Another hand appears to grab higher at the ghost's leg, and with that leverage, a dark creature pulls itself out from the floor.  Only reaching the height of my father's knee, the thing is almost entirely black with no discernable mouth, sulfur-colored eyes, and an odd pair of ribbon-like antenna waving from the top of its head. Staring at the thing, I somehow make the odd connection that the demon looks like a cross between a tiny gimp and a deranged bunny.

Yellow eyes blink almost lazily as the thing looks up at my trapped father, and once recognizing the fear in mismatched eyes, the thing shows that it has a mouth after all and it's full of overlapping, needle-like teeth that could never serve a functional purpose in the real world.  My bastard father becomes frantic, but his struggles become futile when more shadows slide beneath the ghost and the small demons grab onto any available body parts.  Eventually the spirit topples to the ground and begins swearing a storm as the creatures bite and claw at his body, and I can't think of a better fate for the fucker.

Despite my interest in the grand event, my eyes are immediately drawn to a tiny creature that appears half the size of its kind.  Its antenna twitch in interest while focusing its yellow eyes on a point behind me and I know exactly what has caught its curiosity.  When the bug has the nerve to start a path toward Squall, I stomp a foot between the demon and the clueless brunet.  The thing jumps back in surprise, but then flashes a mouthful of teeth in anger.

"He's _mine_ ," I growl at the bug, even when I'm not the least bit certain there's anything I could do if the demon chose to go after the wounded man.

Promptly hiding its teeth, the thing looks up at me with yellow eyes and then scurries off back toward the rest of its kind without a second glance at Squall.

As I watch it retreat, I discover that several of the larger demons are in the process of dragging my father into the shadows covering the floor, even as the smaller ones continued their gleeful assault on the cursing ghost.  Every time the bastard knocks one away, a new one takes its place, reminding me of those ants that cover the entire body of any animal stupid enough to cross their path.  Mostly lost, my father finds my gaze and glares with pure hatred toward my existence.

"I'll get ya fer this, boy!  I'll _destroy_ everythin' ya love and _break_ ya before I _rip out yer beatin' heart!_ "

"Then I'll be ready for you," I say, reflecting his manic tone.  "Thanks for the warning."

Thin lips twist into a snarl, but whatever the bastard may have said is lost as a clawed hand grabs onto his hair and drags him fully into the darkness.  The remaining demons chitter in a blood-chilling chorus before following the captured ghost, and once every antenna has disappeared, the shadows filling the condo shift excitedly before leaving in a harsh wind that moves furniture, knocks over a bookcase, and scatters loose paper throughout the living room and kitchen.

As those papers settle, the heaviness of the room gradually dissipates as sunlight chases away the remaining shadows and typical street noises start to filter through the windows.  Not quite trusting that everything is fine and good, I stand in place for maybe a minute longer while scanning the room and looking for any dark spot that doesn't belong.  Eventually I'm satisfied that the darkness is truly gone and my father along with it, and as a relieved smile tugs at my lips, I spin around to tell Squall the amazing details, but my excitement quickly passes when I'm reminded of the damage my father left behind.

Leaning heavily against the pantry door, Squall holds a kitchen towel to the gash between his eyes, but he hadn't bothered to wipe away the blood from his cheek.  Despite being paler than normal, his storm-colored eyes are as bright and intelligent as ever, and I have to wonder what he saw during this whole mess.

"Did you send him away?"

"You know I did," I say when I don't see a flicker of doubt in his gaze.  "I can't promise he's gone for good, but I don't think he'll have an easy time of coming back."

Squall hums thoughtfully and looks beyond my shoulder.  "That last time... It wasn't your father you stopped from coming at me, was it?"

"No, it was a cocky little demon that didn't know better," I answer as if I had been in perfect control of the situation, "but how did you figure that out?"

Pale eyes shift back to my face, and after a moment of indecision, he lifts a hand to draw aside the heavy chain of his necklace and reveal the burn marks darkening his skin.  I curse at the sight and automatically reach out to the brunet, but he shies away with a pained expression while lowering the necklace back over damaged flesh.

“What are you _doing_? We should get that thing off of you.”

“I already tried, but it doesn’t hurt as much when I leave it on.”

I fist my hands in frustration, wanting to tear the necklace from Squall’s throat despite his assurances. "Damn it, that thing was meant to _protect_ you, not burn you to a crisp.  I must have done something wrong..."

Squall shows a vague smile and muses, "Or maybe you made it into something stronger than it was meant to be."

"That's doubtful," I grumble at the overly optimistic theory, and before I can start to worry about what would've happened if a larger demon had gone after Squall, I tell him, "Either way, we obviously need to get you to a hospital, and don't even think that we're taking your bike.  You'd probably faint and kill us both before getting halfway there."

Instantly losing his smile, the brunet stares at me as if I've lost my mind.  "A hospital?  No... _no_ , you swore to help my mother once you figured out how to control your powers.  We have to go to her first."

"You're _bleeding_ , you moron.  The last thing your mother would want is for you to run around injured."

The stubborn man shakes his head, the movement revealing just how much blood the kitchen towel had soaked up.  "Every minute is important."

"And I understand that, but damn it, Squall, do you really think your mother should see you like this?"

With betrayal gleaming in pale eyes, he stares at me as if my argument was completely baseless.

Annoyed at his refusal to accept the realities of his situation, I grab the wrist of his free hand and drag the smaller man to the bathroom connected to his room.  Shoving him in front of the mirror, I say forcibly, "Look at yourself!  How is this going to remotely _help_ your mother?  Hasn't she gone through enough in her lifetime without seeing her son in this state?"

Squall takes in the sight of his bloodied face and clothes, but then turns his back to the mirror and directs an even more determined glare at me.  "It's just blood.  I have a medical kit and clean clothes. She'll never know the difference."

When I open my mouth to call 'bullshit,' Squall speaks over me, "I _know_ she has survived this long and I have faith in the protection charm you gave her, but ever since you told me about your mother, I have been afraid that the same will happen to mine.  The ghost haunting her has already convinced her that she's a worthless whore, so you tell me, Seifer--how much more effort would it take for him to convince her to take her own life?"

I stare at the secretive man for his admission, never guessing that such thoughts had plagued him.  And then I remember my own feelings from my mother's suicide, the greatest being my frustration when I knew I couldn't do anything to stop the blade from slicing into her flesh.  I would have given anything to prevent her provoked suicide, and I can't blame Squall for sharing that same desire that overwhelms everything else.

"That was a low blow," I complain, my voice rough from the onslaught of old emotions.

His eyes close briefly in a vague apology.  "I need this, Seifer.  I can't..."  He hesitates in thought and then finishes in a frustrated breath, "I can't focus on anything else if there's something I can do to help my mother."

I exhale in defeat, not quite certain when I lost this battle or even if I had a chance in the first place.  "All right, Sherlock, you get your way, but I can't promise that I'll be able to do anything.  I still don't know how I pulled off that trick, and shit, the last thing I need is to look like a nutcase in front of the headshrinkers in that place.  They'll lock me up faster than I can blink."

"I won't let them," Squall assures in a dry tone that isn't very encouraging.  Before I can point that out, the brunet surprises me when, in a fleeting touch, he brushes his fingers against my cheek.  "You need to wash your face.  It would horrify my mother to see blood on her angel like this."

I stare at the confusing man, and while it takes a moment for my sluggish thoughts to catch up, I suddenly realize that Squall might have been talking about a lot more than his injuries when he said he can't focus on anything else right now.  I grab his hand before he can completely withdraw it, and although Squall could easily knock away my hold, he allows it while showing a bland expression as if nothing incredible had happened only moments ago.

"Don't mess with me, Squall," I say, his name sliding from my tongue without an ounce of effort, but I can't stop to wonder when exactly that happened.  "Do you finally believe me when I say I'm serious about you?  Are you going to give me a real chance?"

Blue-gray eyes gaze at my face, but he refuses to answer my repeated question.

I frown when a different, less optimistic theory comes to mind.  "Then what, are you trying to use your mother as some kind of bait?  That if I save her, then maybe I get to keep you as a prize?"

"You fucking _bastard_ ," Squall snarls before ripping his hand from my hold and balling it into a tight fist.  "I would _never_ use my mother like that, or _you_."

Immediately regretting my words, I press my hand to my forehead and whisper a curse at my thoughtlessness, but for the life of me, I don't know what I could possibly say to fix it.  His mother has always been a touchy topic, something I've known for years, and yet I stepped over that line and onto a landmine by accusing Squall of basically bartering himself for his mother.  Damn it, why haven't I taken a clue from Squall that thinking before speaking is often the wisest plan of attack?

After a tense moment, Squall sighs and relaxes his hand.  "You're lucky that I know you're a moron."

"Right, because that's what I'm known for--being lucky," I bite out in reflexive sarcasm.

"You'd be surprised," Squall murmurs, almost unheard when he bends down and retrieves a first aid kit from underneath the bathroom sink.  He sways when standing up and my hand is at his lower back before I question whether or not my help is welcomed.  With a tired expression, Squall glances down at my arm but doesn't lash out against my touch.  I can only assume it's because both of his hands are otherwise occupied.

"Let me help you," I say to the exhausting man.

Squall hums as if agreeing, but his suggestion of how I should 'help' doesn't settle well with me: "Call and arrange for a taxi.  I should be ready in twenty minutes."

While it doesn't surprise me that he's still determined to see his mother, it's difficult to see the blood on his face, hands, and clothes and believe that he'll look human again in just twenty minutes.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he says, as if I could be convinced by such a line.

"Sure, and I already miss my father and his words of wisdom."  While I earn a glare from the injured man, I pull back my supporting arm and turn around to move toward the open doorway.  "Don't worry, Sherlock--you're getting your fucking way, even if it kills you.  Just try not to haunt me like the rest of the people in my fucked up life."

As I continue into the master bedroom, the only response I get from the prude is a lightly closed door, not that I expected much more.  This stubborn side of the brunet is nothing new, but that doesn’t make it any less frustrating.

When I hear Squall starting his shower, I stop and look over my shoulder at the closed door.  The idiot is in pain and probably light-headed from blood loss, yet he's ready to do anything for his mother.  It's pathetic of me, but I can't help feeling jealous of the woman and how she dominates his love. I imagine he'd do the same for anyone he considers family—his father and sister, Ward, and probably Fuujin and Zell, too...

I wish I could be certain about whether or not he'd go to those same lengths for me.

~ > < ~

"Umm, are you _sure_ that you're okay, Squall?"

The nurse at the front desk is a young thing this time with shiny blond hair and dark mascara, looking more like a candy striper fantasy than someone useful in a mental hospital.  My best guess is that she did something she shouldn't have and got stuck volunteering wherever the court assigned her sweet ass... Although that could just be my bias speaking out.  I _really_ don't like the way she says Squall's name.

Barely paying attention to the woman, Squall grunts out something that could be taken as 'I'm fine' while he enters his information into the logbook.  Amazingly enough, the dark-haired man looks half-presentable, especially compared to an hour ago.  The blood is gone from his face and hands, even his fingernails cleaned to a pristine state.  His clothes are new, the stained ones tossed into the trash as hopeless.  All that's left is a large piece of gauze taped in the middle of his face to cover his wound, but it doesn't completely stop the blood as smudgy spots have slowly started to appear on the white cotton.

I can't help feeling like this is a bad idea, even as I accept the pen Squall gives me to sign in.

"Where is my mother?" Squall asks while looking down the nearby hallway.

"Mrs. Loire?  Isn't she always in that garden room?  I mean, when she isn't sleeping, of course," is the girl's less than helpful reply.

As I print my name beneath Squall's, I notice from the corner of my eye that the typically controlled man is tapping his foot in an impatient beat.  I curse in my head at the sight, uncertain what I'm going to do if I can't make my powers work for his mother.  It was one thing to have Squall's life threatened only inches away, but a completely different thing to help a woman I barely know.  I'm not like Squall.  I don't think through a damn thing; I just react to whatever situation is in front of me, and it's not like my powers haven't failed me before...

Shit, this is definitely a bad idea.

The moment I finish the last digit of my arrival time, Squall takes off down the hallway, forcing me to drop the pen and chase after him.  At his side and matching his pace, I fight the unexpected urge to wrap my arm around the slender man.  The last time we walked down this hallway, I wanted more than anything to run away.  Pathetically, that same instinct still exists, but if I was holding onto Squall, I would have a lot more to distract me.

Before last week, I thought that regular hospitals were God awful with the amount of spirits lurking around. I haven’t visited many hospitals in my lifetime, but the dead were typically normal in shape and form, probably because their souls didn't have the chance to remember the cause of their deaths.  Hell, the first time I went to a hospital was after my mother's suicide, and even at that young age, I didn't have the urge to run and scream.  But here...

It's with a mixture of sadness and disgust that I look at the lost souls of the insane.  Several have missing limbs and gaping holes in their bodies, but some are far more eye-catching like a young girl with her mouth sealed closed like melted wax and an older woman holding her hands tightly against her chest to stop her heart from falling out of the open cavity.  It's as if their insanity had affected their very souls, and now they're damned to an eternity of dealing with their incurable sickness.

Whatever happens today, I can't be forced to stay in this place.  Squall may say that he'll protect me, but he can't promise they won't grab me for temporary observation.  It may sound simple enough, but I doubt it'd take more than a night of these ghosts to finally drive me over the edge.

"Seifer...?"

Startled by the touch at my arm, I drag my eyes away from the sight of a determined ghost trying to grab onto a living flower from a vase in the hallway.  It wouldn't be so disturbing except that his arms and fingers are bent in impossible directions and I can't imagine how he thinks he'll hold onto the small white flower, even if he could touch it.

Refocusing on reality, I quickly realize I had nearly passed the common area where Squall's mother should be sitting, and judging by the piercing look of stormy eyes, I doubt that I'm going to be able to talk my way out of this one.  "Sorry, I wasn't paying attention."

"But you were focused on something," Squall says with certainty.  "Are there other spirits here?"

"Don't worry your pretty head over it.  We're here for your mother, right?"

Blue-gray eyes shift to the common area and the woman curled up in a sofa chair, but Squall doesn't take my bait.  "I never considered... I know how people are sent here to be cured or forgotten, but I didn't consider how you would be affected by the ones who have died here."

"Yeah, well, you've been distracted," I say while fighting a smile.  It wouldn't be appropriate, but damn it, I never thought that Squall would put me in front of his mother, even for a few fleeting seconds.

"’Distracted’..." Squall repeats with a frown.  "The last time we were here, I thought you were nervous about meeting my mother."

"Trust me, Sherlock, I was terrified.  It was just icing on the cake to have these other spooks lurking around.  But hey," I begin as I place a hand under his chin and force him look at me, "you didn't put me in chains and drag me here.  I could've walked away at any point, but I didn't, and I'm glad that I met your mom.  I think she’s a pretty damn amazing woman and I honestly want to help her."

"...Then, you're not in danger here?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that," I say in a low voice, my eyes briefly moving to the sight of a doctor and nurse conversing down the hall, the pair eventually disappearing into a different room.  When I return my gaze to Squall's face, I see the shift of blue-gray eyes from that same view of the hallway and I know that my unspoken message had gotten through crystal clear.

Squall studies my face for a long moment, and while it would be easy for him to repeat his pledge to protect me, he instead places a hand at my chest and whispers a barely heard, "Thank you."

I smile weakly at the conflict in his voice, knowing very well that Squall wouldn't risk my safety if there was another way to save his mother.  I'm half-tempted to take advantage of the situation and coax another kiss from the strict man, but then I move my focus to the gauze between pale eyes and notice how the pinkish hues from a short while ago have darkened to red splotches.  The sooner I do this, the sooner Squall can get to a doctor... and then I'll revisit the idea of using guilt against the prude to lure a second kiss from him.

Finding my resolve, I take a few steps to the threshold of the common area, but quickly realize that I'm walking alone.  Confused, I turn around to face the brunet and silently question his abrupt decision to stay put.

"I don't want to startle her," Squall says softly.  "If you talk to her first and tell her that it's nothing serious..."

With a smirk at his well-meaning request, I tell him, "You should know better than that, Sherlock.  Mothers always know when their children are lying."

Squall frowns at the truth of my words, but he doesn't back down from his plan, his absolute stubbornness almost making me laugh.

Almost, that is until I return my focus to the 'Garden Room' and step over the threshold.  There's a very real reason why few people sit with the kind-hearted woman, and it has nothing to do with her occasional lapses into hysteria.  A darkness hovers around her that reminds me of smoke from a burning home--it smells of lives that have been destroyed in an instant, it fills the lungs and makes it hard to breathe, and it clings to those nearby like smeared ash.  I had forgotten just how intense the aura of her tormentor is, and faced with that sickening energy, I truly doubt that my meager abilities could match the experienced sadist.

But despite all of that, I keep walking forward until I take a wide path around the sofa chair so my appearance won’t startle the woman.  Raine Loire doesn't notice me at first, her eyes of familiar blue-gray focused on the windows instead of the rest of the world around her, which gives me plenty of time to really look at the woman who raised Squall.  Seeing her so painfully thin and unkempt in oversized pajamas, I wish I had known her before Stephen Roth invaded her life.  I'm certain she was the source of Squall's beauty and strength, which makes it even more terrible to see her broken and defeated.

"... Angel?"

I show a small smile at the woman's misconception.  "Sorry, I'm still not an angel, Mrs. Loire.  I don't know if you remember, but my name is Seifer."

She stares at me for a blank moment before a light of realization enters her eyes and she lifts a hand to her forehead.  "Of course, Laguna told me your name... He said... You are staying with our son?"  When I nod at her question, she straightens and asks expectantly, "Did Squall come with you?"

"Yeah, he's here, but before you see him, Squall wanted me to warn you that he got cut up a bit.  He's fine," I add quickly, even though I don't quite believe it myself, "but he has a bandage covering part of his face and he doesn't look like his normal handsome self."

Horror seeps into her expression, and just when I think that there should have been a better way to word that, she reaches out with a panicked hand and almost grabs onto my jacket, her shaking fingers stopping a few inches too short.  "Did _He_ attack my son?" she asks in desperation.

I frown when I recognize the disturbing reverence that she holds toward her constant tormentor.  "No, it wasn't Roth.  It was someone who won't be bothering Squall anymore."

Still shaking, the dark-haired woman accepts my answer by sitting back in her chair and pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders.  "He demanded for me to remove your holy protection.  He _warned_ me that those who don't obey lose things.  Lose _important_ things... But I couldn't.  I feel more... awake these days, even when He speaks to me in my sleep... And I know it's because of your blessed protection."

While it's amazing to hear that my protection charm has helped, I feel a little sick at the idea that the gift has only reinforced her belief that I'm some kind of creature with a supposedly pure soul.  Unfortunately, arguing with a less than sane woman isn't the most efficient use of my time and I have a pledge to fulfill.  I can only hope that Squall isn't bothered by his mother considering me her personal angel and that he'll let me abuse her misunderstanding for the greater good.

To gain her attention, I move a little closer to the frightened woman.  "You were right to not take off my protection.  He won't be able to touch you when you have it on, and Squall has a similar charm that he wears, so you don't need to worry about him."

Her gaze focused solely on me, a tear slips from the corner of her eye and slides down her cheek.  "You did that... for me?" she asks, as if dumbfounded by the fact that anyone would do something for her.  After all, who would help a filthy whore?

"You are a very beautiful woman," I say out of an ingrained reflex to flirt with the female kind, but then realize too late that it could be taken very poorly by the woman who has a habit of offering her body.  True to my fears, something closes off in her gaze and she pulls at the collar of her pajamas, but I raise a hand and interrupt whatever suggestion she's about to provide.  "Don't do that, Mrs. Loire.  I did this because Squall wants his mother back, and I owe him a lifetime of favors."

"I... I have to do something..."

"Alright, then there is something I want to know that only you can tell me--where is Roth hiding?  I have something to say to the bastard, and he doesn't seem to be lurking around here."

Eyes widening at my irreverence toward Roth, the woman retreats farther into her sofa chair and wraps her arms around her legs to pull them to her chest.  "I... I don't know."

"I think you do.  He talks to you, and from my experience, I know that ghosts get chatty with the few people who can hear them."

With a shake of her head, she argues in a whisper, "He doesn't speak to me.  He crawls into my head and... _shows_ me things... _terrible_ things."

I frown at the description, wishing I didn't know exactly what that felt like.  "What does he show you in your dreams?  Things from the past or something from the present?  Any of that could tell me where he is."

A keening sound comes from the woman before a loud, hysterical sob erupts from her and she presses her face against her thighs.  I curse at pushing the tormented woman too far, which wasn’t my intention in the least.  I should have seen the signs of her imminent breakdown, but damn it, how am I supposed to deal with Roth if I don't even know where the fucker is?  There’s no way in Hell I'm staying here until he decides to show, and right now, she's the only one who knows anything.

"What in God's name is going on here?!"

My head jerks up at the angered voice and I find Laguna Loire standing at the entrance to the Garden Room.  Green eyes narrow at the sight of me, the mixture of confusion and fury giving them a special light of someone ready to commit murder if he doesn't get the right answers to his questions. Unfortunately, I don't think he'll like any of the answers I can give him.

"Dad," Squall speaks out from his spot at the open doorway, less than a couple feet away from his father, but apparently distracted enough to miss the man's initial approach.  "Seifer is trying to help."

" _Help?_ " Laguna repeats with an incredulous flare, but then he gets a good look at his son and has a new reason to be upset.  "Dear _Lord_ , what happened to you?"

"It's not serious," Squall claims but is quickly overwhelmed by his father.

"You're _bleeding_ , son.  Don't tell me that you were planning to let your mother see you like this."  When Squall's silence implies just that, Laguna sighs and points down the hallway.  "Go to the infirmary and wait for me there."  He then shifts his gaze to me and his eyes immediately darken.  "Take your 'friend' with you."

Knowing how this must look from his perspective, I don't take offense at being downgraded from an almost hero to the bastard who made his wife cry.

Unable to just leave this mess behind me, I look down at Raine once more and my heart breaks a little at the sight of her rocking back and forth in a distressed motion.  My voice hoarse and barely sounding, I say my sincere apologies.  She groans in regret and speaks out her own apologies, but not to me.  The name she uses sends shivers down my spine, but I'm not allowed to process the happenstance when Laguna storms across the room and motions for me to get my ass moving.

Squall surprisingly waits for me at the doorway and leads the way to the infirmary, his arms tight across his chest.  We don't speak for the length of the hallway, but after stepping into a brightly lit room with a handful of cots, Squall growls out, "Why didn't you tell me that Roth isn't here?"

"Because I didn't know at first.  Sometimes they hang out unseen, but he would've made himself known once I starting talking about him."

Squall shakes his head at my reply.  "I didn't want you to upset her."

"And you think that was _my_ plan?  She's fucking broken inside and she'll never get better until that guy is gone, but I can't do anything if I don't know where he is.  I'm sorry, Sherlock, but she's the only one who might know that answer, and I think she--"

I'm interrupted when the infirmary door opens and a woman in a white doctor's coat and a nametag labeled 'Kadowaki' steps inside.  Her dark gray hair pulled back into a tight bun, the doctor seems the hard-love type and I instinctively back up a step when she glances in my direction.  She doesn't focus on me long, however, and quickly shifts her gaze to the wounded brunet.

"Squall," she says in a scolding tone.  "I don't care if you caught a bounty or did some other foolish thing to impress your mother.  I thought I was very clear that you shouldn't come here if you had gotten yourself injured again."

The stubborn man scowls at the accusation without providing an argument as to why he was reckless enough to act against the doctor's apparent threat.

With a sigh, the woman orders, "Onto the bed, young man, and I'll stitch you up.  Next time, though, I expect you to go to a hospital."

Squall hesitates a noticeable second but doesn't formally oppose the doctor as he moves onto a bed and lies down in an annoyed fashion.

With the efficiency of a practiced doctor, the woman collects everything she needs and covers Squall's face with a blue paper-like material that has a hole in it.  She sticks a needle with a numbing solution next to the injured area at Squall's forehead, and while waiting for the drug to do its thing, the doctor glances my way.

"We haven't been introduced.  I'm Dr. Sumi Kadowaki, and Raine Loire is one of my patients."

I frown at the accusation in her voice that suggests she has been informed about my hand in upsetting Squall's mother.  "Listen, I didn't mean to cause trouble.  I had something to ask Mrs. Loire, and I wasn't thinking about how she'd react."

With a humph of 'obviously', the doctor asks, "Are you also the one who gave her that shawl she always wears?"

"Um, technically, Squall was the one to give her that."

"But you are the 'angel' who blessed it, yes?"  Even though I don't reply, Dr. Kadowaki nods as if I had.  "I thought so.  Well, normally I don't like it when patients depend on something imaginary like that, but I have noticed a change in her over the last week.  She says that the shawl keeps the ghost of her torturer away and she can think again."

I glance at Squall for help despite the sheet covering his face, but the man remains suspiciously silent.  Knowing his ways, he's pissed at me and wants me to suffer for my thoughtless methods.  With no better answer for the doctor, I shrug and say, "No harm, no foul?"

The doctor scoffs at my pathetic reply, but she doesn't question me any further as she turns her focus to Squall.  She pokes at his skin to test the numbness, and once satisfied, she begins to stitch together the sliced flesh.  The silence is deafening as Dr. Kadowaki focuses solely on her task, and even though a lost spirit is in the room, the teenage girl with sliced wrists is nothing new or particularly disturbing.  She just stands peacefully next to a window and looks longingly at the world outside, and damn me if I didn't want to be out of this place, too.

With nothing else to serve as a distraction, I'm left to my thoughts and my stomach sours at the memory of Laguna's glare when he discovered I was the cause of his wife's distress.  A week ago, he thanked me for saving Raine, not giving a damn about the details of how something like that would even work.  He _hugged_ me when I knew I didn't deserve his gratitude, and somehow, that makes it even more painful to lose his easy trust.  In my mind, I was going to earn that trust by helping his wife, but like many things in my life, I made things worse by pushing too hard.

About nine stitches into the process, a soft knock sounds and Laguna peeks his head into the infirmary before slipping inside.  "Is he okay, Sumi?"

"It's a deep cut, but I think your son will live.  This time," she adds with a slight smile, the first I've seen from the stern woman.

"Thank goodness," Laguna breathes as he steps next to the bed and a places a hand at Squall leg.  "You have a bad habit of making an old man worry, son.  Some days I wonder why I ever decided to give my business to you."

"I don't remember asking for it," Squall says in his dry way, to which his father chuckles.  His voice lowering to something apologetic, Squall then asks, "How is Mom?"

"Better.  They gave her something to calm down, but not enough to knock her out.  She was asking for you, so once you're fixed up, we can go see her again."  After giving his son a moment to find relief in the news, Laguna squeezes the brunet's leg and asks, "What were you thinking, Squall?  You know that your mother is in a fragile state, and yet you still came with blood on your face and let a complete stranger talk with her."

Squall tries to interrupt, but Laguna speaks over him.  "I understand that Seifer helped to find her, but damn it, he already aggravated her the first time they met, and you brought him back here to cause _more_ damage?  What on _earth_ would make you do something like that?"

His face covered, it's impossible to guess how Squall is truly responding to his father's questions, but his voice is steady and unbothered when he says, "I have my reasons."

Laguna slowly shakes his head.  "I'm sorry, son, but that's not good enough this time.  I know you don't like me messing with your personal life, and I can understand that, but this is your _mother_.  I can't let you do as you want when it affects her."

Squall doesn't say anything in response, and my chest tightens at the knowledge that he's doing it for me.  While I had plenty to risk by coming here, I didn't think twice about what Squall could be risking.  If Laguna restricts Squall's freedom to see his mother, I don't know what that would do to the brunet... No, something like that is unacceptable.

"It wasn't Squall's idea," I speak out, needing to make things right.  "It was mine."

Squall stiffens at my admission and whispers 'moron' in a voice that holds a noticeable hint of worry.

With a now familiar glare, Laguna looks at me and asks a simple, " _Why?_ "

I waver at that point and glance at the still present doctor who hasn't looked up from her work since Laguna first entered.  "It's something kind of private, and if you don't mind--"

"I'll be done in another minute," Dr. Kadowaki states without losing her rhythm.  "If you three can remain civil, you may stay here.  Otherwise, I would appreciate you going outside."

When Laguna continues to glare at me instead of replying to the doctor, I try to smile and say 'thank you' somewhat sincerely.  I get a huff in reply and that's the extent of conversation as she finishes her work.  Once done, she applies some kind of ointment to the wound, and after removing the blue sheet from Squall's face, she places a new piece of gauze and tape over the injured area.

"All right, that should do it," the doctor says with a pat to Squall's shoulder.  "For the record, a hospital could have done something fancier to prevent serious scarring, but I assume that isn't important to you."

"It's fine," Squall replies when sitting up, but he doesn't bother moving from the mattress and instead places a hand to the parts of his forehead not covered by gauze and tape.

"Drink plenty of fluids," Dr. Kadowaki comments at the sign of dizziness, "and I hope to God that you didn't drive that motorcycle of yours here."

"Thank you, Sumi." Laguna says.  "I'll make certain he gets home safely.  And please send the bill my way."

Squall glares at his father, but before he can claim his right to cover the costs, the doctor takes Laguna's statement as a sign that her services are no longer necessary and she steps outside.  Once the door shuts with a click, Squall decides to battle the other issue at hand.  "Seifer isn't to blame here.  I thought he could help Mom and I still believe he can."

With open confusion, Laguna waves a hand in my direction.  "What can _he_ do that a line of doctors can't?  If I understand correctly from Ward, you picked Seifer off the streets when he had no place to sleep, no job to speak of, and no other way to support himself.  How is any of that useful to helping your mother?"

"Because I'm different," I interject before Squall is forced to lie.  Stormy eyes focus on me with the clear message that I don't have to do this, but unfortunately, I don't see any other path available that would allow us to readily help his mother.  I can only hope that Laguna is as open-minded as Squall seems to believe; otherwise I'm fucked... and in a mental hospital with doctors and orderlies only an arm's length away.  Shit, I _knew_ it was a bad idea to come here.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Laguna manages to look intimidating when he asks, "Would you like to explain how, exactly?"

My confidence faltering, I glance to Squall for support and receive a reluctant nod from man, the last sign I need that this might actually work.  With a steadying breath, I meet firm green eyes and start with, "How much do you believe in what you've written?"

Laguna blinks at the seemingly random question.  "I don't understand what that has to do with anything."

"Squall had me read _Whispers of my Mind_ , and while I haven't had the time to finish it, I think it's good.  That first part with the main character as a teenager and working with double-dealing demons especially struck a chord with me.  When I was reading it, I started to wonder if you actually believe in psychics and the paranormal, or do you think that sort of stuff is just a gimmick to sell books?"

Green eyes shift in thought, the older man still thrown by the change in topic and apparently not quick enough to guess the connection.  "I suppose anything is possible, but that's not why I wrote those books.  They're just stories."

"Okay, then were you at least being honest when you said that it doesn't matter how I knew your wife's whereabouts?  How did you put it?  Whether legal, illegal... or a dream that came to me?"

And finally his lips part with sudden realization, but his surprise is quickly replaced with disbelief.  "No, that can't be right..."

With a sigh, Squall enters the discussion.  "How else would it have been possible?  Roth hid Mom and those kids in a specially designed shed that didn't have windows.  There's no way Seifer could have stumbled upon Mom and known where Roth was keeping them."

"Wha... Are you saying you believe him?" Laguna asks in shock, much like my own reaction the first time the logical brunet, for no reason I saw back then, said he trusted my word about his mother and used my knowledge to find her.

Squall shrugs and says, "He was right about Mom, and he's been right about other things.  I have no reason to doubt him."

"This... This is _insane_ ," Laguna argues and flinches when realizing the poor choice in words.  "I mean, yes, I wrote _books_ about the supernatural, but I've never met a person who honestly has those abilities. Meanwhile, I have come across more than enough dishonest people willing to say anything for an easy buck.”

With a disgusted look in my direction, he continues to say, “When I was in the PI game, I ran into all sorts of con artists and swindlers who had no qualms about taking the life savings from little old ladies and desperate young women, and the sad thing is that many of their victims continued to believe in those criminals, even after all of their money was gone.  Those poor souls... And if you think I'll let you trick my son--"

"I have _never_ asked for money," I say emphatically, not wanting to be associated to those scumbags who have no clue what it means to have true powers.  "I'll be the first to admit that I'm no saint, but if a dream really gets to me, I try my damnedest to do the right thing."

"’Dreams,’" Laguna repeats with a scoff.  "Then you're psychic?"

I hesitate, knowing that my answer won't look good given the number of con artists who use the death of relatives against their victims, but it's too late to hide behind lies.  "Technically, I'm a medium, seeing dead people and all of that."

As expected, Laguna inhales to start into another rant, but I beat him to the punch.

"Listen, I don't give a flying fuck if you believe me or not, because really, this isn't something a person just accepts in a moment.  Well, normal people don't," I add with a glance at Squall.  "In the meantime, your wife is being tortured by a sadistic bastard of a ghost, and there is nothing a doctor or drugs can do to chase him away.  I wanted to help, but Roth isn't fucking here, and when I asked where he is, Mrs. Loire reacted badly.  I messed up, and I'm sorry for that, but whatever you do, don't punish Squall for wanting to save his mother.  He did nothing wrong here."

Looking like a man who had the wind stolen from him, Laguna studies me for a long moment.  "Raine talks about you, as if you were a wing-bearing angel, and she said... Did you really do something to that shawl she wears?"

"He did," Squall answers when I hesitate once again.  He then lifts his necklace and, either by accident or on purpose, shows the burnt skin underneath.  "He gave me a protection charm as well, although it apparently doesn't work against ghosts who can hold onto a knife."

Green eyes wide, Laguna stares speechlessly at his son, or more specifically, at the fresh gauze covering stitched flesh.

"Again, I'm not expecting you to believe anything here," I say carefully, afraid that the guy might start to worry about the state of his son's sanity.  "I will say that Mrs. Loire isn't crazy and it's not her fault she can't think straight.  If I can get rid of Roth, she might get better, and whether you allow it or not, I'm going to keep doing whatever I can to do just that."

After a long moment, Laguna decides now would be a good time to point out, "Roth is dead.  He can't... He _can't_ hurt her anymore."

"If only it were that simple..."

Laguna shakes his head, not wanting to believe, but the sliver of doubt is apparent.  "All this time, I told her that she was wrong, that it was impossible for him to come back.  She fought with me at the beginning and begged me to believe her, but eventually, she gave up...  She said I must be right..."

Standing up from the bed, Squall says hoarsely, "I didn't believe her either.  I thought it was a delusion caused by her trauma."

"But you believe her now?  Because of what this man tells you?"

“Mom only talks about Roth, and she never had an episode before her kidnapping. I thought it was a result of what she went through," Squall reasons softly. “Meanwhile, Seifer was able to give me details about something he couldn’t possibly know, and when everything proved true, I had no reason to doubt his claim that a dream had brought him that information.”

Laguna grabs his right thigh and massages the muscle.  "This is... too much.  I don't know whether I should call Sumi back to examine you both, or if I should... wait and see if you actually manage to do something to help Raine."  With a hard stare at me, Laguna makes clear, "But I don't think I can trust you.  I believed in so much this last... God, this last _decade_ , and very little of it has proven true.  I don't have the strength believe in something as ridiculous as ghosts and a man who can see them."

"And that's fine," I say in a rushed breath.  "I'm okay if you don't believe me, but whatever you do, don't tell Squall that he can't see his mother.  He thought we were doing the right thing."

"What?  I would never..." Laguna glances between his son and me, and then shows a vague smile.  "Oh, so that's what this is about.  Well, for your information, I would never tell Squall that he can't come here.  Raine loves her son, and even when she is ashamed by some of the things she does, she never refuses his visits.  This isn't the first time Squall has walked in a mess, and while I may get angry, I don't have any real say when it comes to him and his mother."

Even when I feel relieved at his words, I realize that Squall was never in danger of being kept from his mother and I probably could have avoided admitting a damned thing if I had stopped and let Squall do the talking.  As if reading my thoughts, Squall looks at me with an 'I told you so' expression that makes me want to poke him directly in the stitches.

Laguna steps forward to stand in front of me, and with bright green eyes, he studies my face.  "I think I see what Ward means when he says that he never knows what to expect from you.  It's what made you a good quarterback--you always did things you're not supposed to do given the situation.  I thought it was brilliant, but Ward always said it was reckless."

I stare dumbly at the long-haired man, forgetting how Ward and Laguna apparently used to watch my games back in the day.  It's hard to think of the pair sitting in the bleachers and watching a high school football game, but then again, it's not like there are many other options for sports in this area.

"What did Kiros think?" Squall asks dully, but the light to his eyes suggests true interest.

"Kiros?" Laguna starts with a fond grin.  "Well, he found it hysterical whenever Seifer would get the other team chasing their tails because of some strange play, but that isn’t saying much since he also laughed when the play would end in disaster.  We had a good time watching those games.  It's a shame that we haven't done anything similar in years," Laguna ends on a somber note.  He doesn't let that last, however, and pats a heavy hand against Squall's shoulder. "Come, your mother is waiting.  And if you don't mind, Seifer, it would probably be best if you wait here."

"Actually, I think I'll go wait outside if that's alright," I respond, showing a look to Squall that we need to talk.

Noticing that glance, Laguna nods and says to Squall, "Raine has been moved to her room.  Find us there when you're ready."

Once the older man leaves the infirmary, I pull the door closed again and ask the first thing on my mind--"There's a _third_ guy out there?"

"Hn, Kiros is my other godfather.  He was on the police force with my father and Ward, but he has since started his own security company," Squall comments as if it wasn't something to worry about and as if security officers don't walk around with guns and an inferiority complex.

"So what's his thing?  Is he bigger than that ogre of an uncle you have?"

Squall breathes a laugh at the idea.  "No, not even close to Ward's size, but that only makes Kiros quicker when pulling a weapon."

"Shit, that's not funny," I complain, but the brunet doesn't show me any sympathy over the matter.  I guess all I can do is cross my fingers and pray that I don't have to deal with a third overprotective father-figure while trying to convince Squall that I'm serious about him.  And then, if by some crazy miracle I somehow get my way, I can die a happy man when one of those ex-cops places a bullet in my skull for assaulting their precious boy.

With a quirk to his full lips, Squall asks, "Is that all you wanted to say?"

I sigh at the question that forces me back to serious matters.  "No, there's something else.  Before your dad showed up, your mom said something that might be important.  At the end there, she wasn’t apologizing to me, but to Nida."

"Nida?" Squall repeats, all humor lost.  "One of the children who was kidnapped along with Mom?"

"Unless you happen to know of another Nida in her life...?"  When Squall doesn't seem to know of anyone else, I surmise further, "She probably has been shown dreams about him, and if I'm right, I don't think it's too crazy to assume that Roth is having a grand old time harassing another one of his old victims."

Squall frowns at the theory that puts another innocent person in the destructive path of a dead man.  "I'll do some research and see if I can locate his current whereabouts."

With nothing else to do until Nida can be found, I open the door and step aside to allow Squall out first.  "Will you apologize to your mom for me?"

Squall seems to think about it for a moment before shaking his head.  "No, you can do that yourself when this is done."

I breathe a humorless laugh at his high standards.  "You're a hard man, Loire."

Not replying to that, Squall pauses in front of me during his exit and looks up at me with his blue-gray eyes that are even more incredible when in close view.  "I want to thank you for telling my father the truth.  It was unnecessary, but I don't particularly like lying and hiding things from him.  It's... harder when it comes to my father."

I look closely at the brunet, and while the exact words weren't spoken, I swear there is something different about his gaze.  "Are you implying that I'll be sticking around long enough that your dad will start to ask questions?"

The question causes a slight twitch of his left eye, but nothing more.  "I already said you could stay as long as you need."

"That's not what I'm talking about and you know it, Sherlock.  Are you going to give me a chance to love you, or are you going to continue pretending that nothing can happen between us?"

Averting his gaze, Squall looks to the hallway and his escape route when he says, "I'm not certain what to think..."

Before the distracted brunet can notice my fool's grin, I bend in to brush my lips against his in a soft kiss that Squall surprisingly accepts for a glorious fraction of a second.  He doesn't jerk away, either, but instead slowly leans back to stare at me with a cross-eyed expression given the closeness of our faces.  Squall doesn't say anything while staring at my face, which leaves it up to me to explain my actions.

"You didn't say 'no,’ Squall.  Since it's the best reply I've gotten yet, I thought I should seal it with a kiss," I say with a slightly more tempered grin.

Clearly unimpressed, the dark-haired beauty moves out from my reach.  "You shouldn't take advantage of this."

"If I didn't, would you believe me when I say that I'm serious?"

With a frown, Squall steps past me and says over his shoulder, "I believe far too much when it comes to you."

More than a little surprised by his admission, I watch as he continues down the hallway and think about how I was once afraid of this man for the very reasons I find myself attracted to him now.  He's an honest man who doesn't need to rely upon lies and masks, but he's also very skilled at falsehoods when it comes to his business and hiding his feelings from me.  I know that it won't be easy living with him, and even so, I'm tired of not doing right by my powers, I'm tired of avoiding my feelings that are remotely connected to my bastard father, and I'm tired of hating myself for being born in the first place.  If it means that I have to be stronger and better than the person I was in my past, then that's exactly what I'll do.

"Love is terrible, isn't it?"

"Only when you don't get to embrace it," I reply automatically as I turn and face the lost teenager who has decided to acknowledge my presence.  Like her voice, her body is faded and struggling to remain in this world, even her eyes showing just a bare hint of their original blue hue.  The neglected thing has probably been here a long time, and the only real color to her body is the blood sliding down her wrists and hands.  Looking at those slit wrists, I add quietly, "But you already know that, don't you?"

The young woman shows a bland stare at my question and then returns her gaze to the window.  "He'll come for me... He promised..."

I sigh a regretful breath and tell her, "You gave up on that person a long time ago.  He must have been told by now that you stopped waiting for him."

Pale lips slip into a pathetic frown at the information.  "But... I'm here..."

"You aren't, and you've known that for a while now."  When she doesn't argue, I tell the girl, "Don't you think it's time for you to pass on?  Who knows, maybe your guy is waiting for you on the other side, wondering where the heck you are."

Her frown deepening, she lifts a bloodied hand and presses it against the window.  "Let me wait... just a little longer..."

I nod at her plea, not particularly interested in forcing an innocent spirit to somewhere she doesn't want to go, even if I knew how to do just that.  Sometimes I get lucky and lost souls will listen to me when I tell them that they don't belong here anymore, but this young woman obviously doesn't want to hear the truth.  At some point, she'll fade away altogether, and I can only hope that losing her grip on this world means she is taken to the next one and not that she's simply gone from all existence.

Leaving the infirmary, I walk with my head down and my eyes focused on the linoleum floor, not wanting to deal with the remaining ghosts in this place.  My mind, however, keeps going back to the sight of slit wrists, and I can’t avoid my own darker thoughts that toyed with suicide.  I feel like a fool for thinking, even for a second, how that could be the answer to my pain.  I don't want to be a lost soul stuck in a room forever because I gave up on love and everything else in my life.

To avoid that outcome, I know I should prepare myself for events to happen differently than I expect, and for the first time since fixating on the man, I try to seriously imagine my life if things don't work out with Squall.  It's a depressing thought, and yet I can't imagine Squall giving up on me.  He would be the honorable man he has always been, which means I won't be alone with my demons.  I already know that it's possible to depend on Squall without loving him... but I don't find much relief in that thought.  I want more than seeing him on rare occasions and a friendly handshake whenever we do meet.  I know what his lips feel like against mine, and I've dreamt about the rest.  There's no way in Hell that I can leave all of that behind without a fight.

I breathe a laugh at the realization that my thoughts have gone full circle.  I should be more honest and cope with the fact that Squall may not want me, but it's far more satisfying to imagine the things we could do together.  And God, the things we could do together...

"Sorry, Squall," I murmur while smiling at the numerous possibilities that come to mind, "but I think I've found my path in life and you're not going to convince me otherwise."


	7. Chapter 7

[Squall]

A headache throbbing behind my eyes, I hold a hand to my forehead and rub the limited area not covered by thick gauze. I suppose I should assume that I'm finally feeling the effects of being attacked by an unseen opponent, but I've been hurt in many other fights and none of them have led to this type of headache. No, this deep ache has only one cause in my experience--a green-eyed nuisance who, in this case, had the gall to steal a second kiss from me when I specifically warned him that there would only be one.

Fucking asshole.

Glancing over at the large blond, I watch him drive with both hands at the wheel and the speedometer needle hovering just under the posted speed limit. It irritates me to see Seifer acting like a careful driver, and while the logical part of me recognizes that I’m angry at him for a completely different reason, I can’t help but to think that he’s annoying me on purpose. The Seifer I know simply isn’t the type of man to drive like a grandmother who can’t see over the steering wheel of her car.

“You’re upset,” Seifer comments lightly.

Not replying, I focus on his lips and notice how they curl slightly into a perpetual smug expression. The urge to punch him comes to mind, but he’d probably consider the attack as foreplay or something equally ridiculous.

“Hey, I had nothing to do with this,” Seifer defends, perhaps sensing the violent direction of my thoughts. “I was surprised as you were when your dad handed me the keys and told me to drive you home. I thought the guy had put me on his shit list for what happened with your mom.”

I huff at his guess that happens to purposefully avoid the real reason for my anger. In all reality, I knew that my father would do something patronizing once he learned that we had taken a taxi to the hospital, but him encouraging us to use my mother’s neglected jeep was a surprise. Given my unsteady state, I wasn’t allowed to drive, but only Laguna is naïve enough to claim that he doesn’t trust Seifer, and then twenty minutes later happily give that same man the keys to his wife’s car.

I suppose the illogical act is nothing new from my father, but that doesn’t help me when I try to predict whether or not he’ll eventually believe in Seifer and his abilities. It would make things easier to have Laguna’s support, but I’m not about to waste my energy on trying to understand the thought process behinds his decisions. He’ll make his choice one way or another, and until then, I have to make my plans without my father’s help.

The light ahead of us turns yellow, and in further ridiculousness, Seifer steps on the brake instead of the accelerator and slows to a stop at the eventual red light.

“Okay, I know that’s not why you’re angry,” Seifer says as he looks over with a pathetic gleam to his eyes. “I fucked up with your mom, and you have every right to be pissed. You wanted me to help her, and I only made things worse.”

I momentarily recall yelling at the blond for just that, but I know that the majority of the blame doesn’t lie with him. Needing to voice that to Seifer, I say, “I forced you to go there when I obviously didn’t understand the situation. I should have listened to you and waited.”

Seifer breathes a laugh. “How much do you want to bet that you’ll never say that again?”

I glare at him in the clear message that I have listened to him many times before and often without regret.

“Okay, okay, for better or worse, you have taken me seriously in the past,” he agrees with a fleeting smile, “but that doesn’t change how I made a mess of things today. If your dad bans me from that place, it seems pretty impossible to save your mother like I want to.”

“Then we’ll focus on Nida and the other kids,” I counter. “I won’t let you give up at this point.”

Green eyes have a soft gleam while watching me and Seifer’s overall look is a bit too affectionate for my liking, but instead of saying whatever stupid thing he was about to say, Seifer yawns in a jaw-cracking manner that I haven’t seen since the other week. And why wouldn’t he be tired? What little sleep he managed last night was interrupted by a demon attacking him in his dreams. Too soon after that, he was forced to protect me from his homicidal father, and not once, but twice called upon the power trapped within his human shell. I don’t know what it means for him to use that power to exorcise a ghost, and I doubt Seifer could answer that question either, but the stress alone should be damaging enough.

And lastly, without considering about his wellbeing, I pushed him directly into another dangerous situation that would have required the additional use of his unique abilities. While it’s hard to admit, I realize now how that might not have gone well even if Roth’s ghost had been waiting for us.

“You need sleep,” I comment after the light turns green and Seifer has a delayed reaction with the accelerator.

“Yeah right, because that’s going to happen anytime soon,” he grumbles even as he lifts a hand to rub his eyes.

“You can’t avoid sleep forever.”

“I know, but…” With a sigh, Seifer continues looking forward when he asks, “How about a trade, then? In the most nonsexual way possible, sleep with me for the next few hours. Then we can go hunting for Roth all you like.”

My headache throbs at his request, almost making me groan in pain. “You have got to be—“

“I’m not trying a line here, Squall,” Seifer interrupts. “You haven’t slept since two nights ago and lost enough blood this morning to make _me_ want to faint. You need sleep, too, and don’t fucking argue with me and say that you’re fine.”

“I would get better rest without you,” I point out, irritated at his new game to speak my name as if he never had an issue with it before now.

“Yeah, but I don’t think I could do the same without you. Even after I woke up from my dream, I didn’t feel safe again until you came back home, and that’s not the first time I’ve noticed it. I don’t know if it has to do with your home, or maybe with that protection charm I gave you, or maybe you’re just really good at distracting me, but whatever the reason, I don’t feel as exposed to wandering spirits when I’m close to you.”

I scoff at the useful excuse that would give Seifer a reason to crawl into my bed.

With a frustrated sneer, the blond tries a different approach. “Fine, if you don’t want to believe that, can’t you at least agree that you’d be able to wake me faster if I’m right fucking next to you? The last time I closed my eyes, I was strangled by some kind of demon and I couldn’t fight back—can you blame me for wanting a backup plan if it happens again?”

His reasoning still sounds too convenient, but then my eyes drift to the bruises decorating his throat and I remember how Seifer looked the moment I stepped into my bedroom. There was honest terror in his eyes, and while I have seen plenty of fear in his verdant gaze as of late, nothing compares to last night. Knowing that, it seems spiteful of me to say “no” to his request simply because I’m afraid that he’ll take advantage of the situation. Worse, if some demon does take him away from me because I refused this one request…

Interrupting that thought, my cell phone rings in a piercing noise that makes me cringe when my headache announces its disapproval. I glance at the name on the screen and frown when I know that I shouldn’t have a return call so soon. Selecting the answer button, I lift the phone to my ear. “Do you have something for me already?”

A light tsk sounds over the line. <”Really, who taught you to answer the phone like that? Would a simple ‘Hello, and how are you doing?’ kill you once and while?”> Selphie scolds, but I can tell by her tone of voice that her mind is on something else, something she doesn’t like one bit.

“Is this about those names I wanted you to look into?”

Selphie hesitates before asking her own questions. <”What is this for, Squall? Is this a new case of yours? You weren’t really helpful with details when you called earlier.”>

“It’s something personal. Is that a problem?”

<”That depends on your definition of a ‘problem’…”> she murmurs under her breath before saying more clearly, <”All right, assuming you have your reasons, you told me that Nida Piolt should be first on my list, but I don’t think you’re going to like what I found. According to our records, a teenage boy by that name committed suicide earlier this year.”>

Not expecting that detail and unwilling to accept it, I’m forced to ask the detective, “Are you certain?”

<”Sorry, Squall, but the name matches the age range you were looking for and he was also a foster child, just like you said. He apparently hung himself from one of the goal posts on the Rose High School football field, and I’m afraid that it doesn’t get any better. Lian Xu also committed suicide, but over two years ago. From the report, it sounds like she cut herself pretty badly and... All I can say is that it wasn’t her first attempt.”>

I curse at the information, my thoughts spinning at the possibility of Roth driving those children to suicide and then showing my mother their deaths time and time again. And fuck that bastard to Hell, it’s not fair. My mother and those children should have been free of his poisonous existence once a swat team member shot the sadist in the chest. My father had said it perfectly when he insisted that Roth was dead and that he shouldn’t be able to hurt my mother anymore, but I didn’t imagine that the ghost could take things this far.

<”Squall,”> Selphie says softly, her tone suggesting that I’ve been quiet too long. <”What could you possibly be researching that would include these kids?”>

“Zack Fair,” I say ignoring her question. “Were you able to find anything on him?”

With a reluctant sigh, Selphie replies, <”His parents filed a missing persons report about seven months ago. He’s almost eighteen, so he could be exploring the world or something else that guys do around that age, but if he’s associated to these kids somehow… Seriously, Squall, do I need to call his parents and tell them to not wrap any Christmas presents for him? What exactly are you involved in here? Is this…”> Lowering her voice to a whisper, she asks, <”Is this something to do with Handsome?”>

I glance over at the blond, the man doing an admirable job of looking like he isn’t listening to every word of my conversation. “He’s… involved.”

<”Damn, please tell me this isn’t about another set of futures that he couldn’t stop. That guy has dealt with enough failures without this, and do you remember when he saw that picture of the latest Strangler victim? It could have been his own child judging by that heartbroken look to his eyes.”>

While I wouldn’t have used the same words, I know exactly what expression Selphie saw on that day. Seifer has never handled frustration well, even though his life seems to be full of futile struggles, and I doubt his reaction to this information will be any different. Worse, these were people Seifer thought he had saved from a terrible fate, and now I have the responsibility to tell him that he only postponed their destiny.

<”Damn…”> Selphie repeats when my silence answers her concern for ‘Handsome’. <”Well, I shouldn’t say this and it might not even matter, but Nida… He carved something into his arm. It said, ‘I can’t,’ and he took his own life after that. It could be nothing more than a suicide note, but both of those kids used a knife somehow. Maybe that matters?”>

My blood goes cold at the knowledge of how my mother has tried many times to use a sharp object on her body, but it’s too early to assume that everything is connected. “It might mean something,” I tell Selphie as my thanks for revealing the extra information from the police records. “Send me whatever you can and I’ll look through it.”

<”I’m afraid it’s not much since these are minors we’re talking about, but I hope it helps. Call me if you need anything else, and promise to return the favor if something comes up for me.”>

“It’s not my choice,” I say in reply to her vaguely subtle request that she wants to be notified if Seifer has anymore dreams.

Selphie laughs lightly at the rebuff. <”It’s sweet that you’re taking his side. Well, be good, Squall, and don’t get into any more trouble without me.”>

My stitched flesh twitches at her warning, and for my own wellbeing, I don’t say anything and simply end the call before Selphie can figure something out. Even so, I stare at the screen of my phone for several seconds, waiting for the possibility of another call from the observant woman. Meanwhile, in the darkness of the screen, I can see my reflection and dully admit that my father’s concern may have been more justified than I originally thought.

“Are you going to pretend that you don’t have something to tell me?”

With a sigh, I slip my cell phone back into my pocket. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Don’t do me any favors, Sherlock. I’m a big boy who can handle the truth.”

I waste another moment while looking out the side window, noting that we’re almost to my building, but not close enough that I could distract Seifer from what he wants. In a weird way, I have to think that this proves how much I love the blond idiot: I want more than anything to prevent his constant pain, and yet, when he asks me directly for something that can only hurt him, I don’t know how to refuse.

“Well?” Seifer prods.

Deciding that there’s little point to soften the blow, I relent, “According to Selphie, Nida and Xu both committed suicide in the last two years. Zack has been missing for months without any leads, and given his association to those two, it’s probably safe to assume the worst.”

Seifer doesn’t say anything for several seconds, forcing me to look at him to judge his reaction. His emerald eyes are hard while he continues to stare forward at the road, but that doesn’t prevent the slight buildup of moisture as he copes with the idea of more lost lives. I would have expected him to hide that sight of weakness, but instead, his hands stay on the steering wheel and his knuckles become bone-white from the strength of his grip. It’s strange to see the silent form of anger from the volatile blond, and not for the first time, I don’t know how to react to him.

“I’m going to fuck him up,” Seifer eventually pledges in a hoarse voice. “One way or another, I’m going to make that fucker feel every twinge of pain that each of his victims have felt.”

I stare at the green-eyed man, but in my mind, I see Seifer as he was when he stood between me and his unseen father. Like then, my chest feels sore with the pride I feel for the blond, and not because of his words or his anger, but because he has somehow found the strength to use his powers when he continues to claim that they are a curse upon his life. In contrast, I consider his powers to be one of the most beautiful things I have ever witnessed, and it would be troublesome if Seifer ever discovered that little fact.

His hard gaze shifting my way, Seifer asks, “Are you going to help me?”

“Until you’re satisfied,” I reply, knowing that Roth’s end won’t be enough after so many years of disappointment.

An unidentifiable gleam enters his eyes before he returns his attention to the street ahead of us.

The remainder of the ride home passes in silence, Seifer never increasing his speed as we approach my building and eventually pull into the empty space next to my motorcycle. As I step out of the jeep, I notice the spare helmet sitting at the back of my bike and I think about Seifer’s outburst earlier this morning. It has always been a dance between us, one of us trying to get closer to the other, but never close enough to get burned.

At least, that’s how it was until Seifer demanded for his one kiss, a kiss that I can’t forget, and damn him for crossing that line.

The sound of Seifer closing his door encourages me to move and not let him catch me in a distracted moment. I’m the first to the stairwell, but that has become somewhat commonplace ever since Seifer learned about his father’s attempt to shove me down the concrete steps. I almost want to ask Seifer if he thinks there is still something to fear after the events of this morning, but I know from the necklace against my skin that nothing is around. The metal is cold and soothing against my burnt skin, acting almost like a healing balm to the flesh it had damaged with its protective energy. It shouldn’t be that way, and yet I have a feeling that there’s more of Seifer in his protection charm than he may realize himself.

We reach my condo without conflict or obstacle, and yet when I open the door, I’m immediately reminded of everything that had happened only hours ago—the pain of an unexpected and vicious attack, the sudden icy chill that was unnatural and terrifying, the perfection of white light that flowed from the blond—and I’m not certain how to focus on the mundane task of cleaning up the mess in front of me. The whole place smells of burnt coffee, the collection of my father’s books lie in pile beneath fallen shelves, and the kitchen is colored in the dark stains of my spilt blood. My home has been violated, and while this wasn’t the first time my furniture has been upturned from a fight, I don’t like how this particular instance was completely out of my control.

Sighing out some frustration, I pick up the fallen coat rack to hang up my jacket, but Seifer obviously has different plans. His arms wrap around me in a suffocating hug, pinning my arms in a hold that I could easily escape if Seifer forces the point. In the meantime, I relax within his arms and stare forward at the bare coat rack, waiting for Seifer to say whatever he needs to say.

His breath is warm against the back of my neck when he speaks. “You never told me if you liked my kiss.”

The comment isn’t much of a surprise, especially when I was expecting some version of his implied question a lot sooner than this. The cocky ass wants to know if I’m willing to accept all of his pledges and delusions based on one incredible kiss, and there’s only one answer I can give—“Why should I believe you?”

His arms tighten around me in frustration, but his voice is soft when he says, “Don’t pretend that you weren’t looking at that mess in the kitchen. I almost lost you today, and it makes me sick to think about it. All I want to do is hold you, but you keep pushing me away, and God _damn it_ , why do you have to be so fucking _stubborn_ all of the time?”

“Because I know you,” I argue in response. “For years, I watched you flirt with nearly every girl and woman around you, and you have never turned an interested eye to another man.”

“Well, of course you never saw me do that. I can see _dead people_ , Sherlock—don’t you think I’ve learned how to hide the parts of me that I don’t want others to know about? Especially the parts that people would consider ‘not normal’?”

“So, this isn’t normal…”

“That’s a cheap shot, but for a jock in high school, no, it wasn’t normal to want another guy,” Seifer says with a disappointed hint to his voice. “Even so, don’t you think there’s a reason why I never harassed you along with my friends? Maybe I wasn’t brave enough to help you back then, but there was no way in Hell that someone was going to make me hurt you. Not my worthless friends and not my fucking father. I guess a part of me knew that if I touched you, it wasn’t going to be for that reason.”

My heart pounding and my head hurting, I don’t dare respond to his little confession. The word “convenient” dances around my thoughts once again, but I also remember Seifer’s face whenever he would stumble upon my fights with some of the football players. Every single time, Seifer would walk away and say that he wasn’t going to be a part of it, but in that split second before leaving, I liked to imagine that there was disgust and anger in those vibrant eyes of his. It was a nice fantasy, and that’s why I never risked looking long enough to see what was really there.

With my silence, Seifer tries a different approach. “Tell me the truth, Squall. Why did you believe me when I told you about my powers?”

“… I didn’t. I looked into your information and it was legit. That’s all.”

“Liar,” Seifer whispers. “If you didn’t believe me, not even a little bit, you wouldn’t have listened to me in the first place and you definitely wouldn’t have checked out my story. So what’s the real answer?”

My lips twitch into an annoyed sneer. “I might have been… influenced by other factors.”

“In other words, you loved me enough to believe in the impossible,” he clarifies without hesitation, somehow not sounding incredibly arrogant about the fact, “but that leads to my next question—with all of the other men out there who would fall down onto their knees to have you, why in the world did you choose me?”

Dragging out every word, I insist irritably, “It wasn’t by choice.”

Seifer hums in vague regret before he releases me from his demanding hug, but promptly encourages me to turn around. With a hand lifted to my face, he brushes a thumb just beneath white gauze, his rough skin catching on the loose threads of cotton. “If you think you didn’t have a choice, why assume that I do?”

I frown at the comparison, but he places a pair of fingers at my lips to silence my retort before it sounds.

“No, you’re right. I did have a choice all of these years, but I made the easy decision that only made things worse. So much could have been different back then if I understood what choice I was making, but I can’t change that. I can only change this moment right now.”

I gaze up into tired green eyes, and all I want to do is deny his words and the lingering touch of his skin, but that would require being able to figure out another reason for his recent flirtatious actions. It would be too cruel if Seifer was doing this in some odd form of repayment, especially if he knows that he can’t go all of the way. Meanwhile, he has already pledged to save my mother, something that is vastly more important to me than the meager concerns in my own life. No, Seifer isn’t doing this for me, but that means he is somehow doing this for himself… and that makes even less sense than the rest of my theories to this point.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Seifer asks while leaning in close with an obvious purpose.

“I’m trying to decide how I should castrate you the moment I determine why you’re fucking around with me.”

His eyes brightening, Seifer smiles his seductive smile and counters, “Then it’s a damned good thing that this isn’t a game and I actually want you.”

Watching that curl to his lips, I’m overwhelmed by years of seeing that fucking smile directed at every pretty thing that crossed his path, and I suddenly can’t take it anymore. I grab the front of his shirt and jerk him forward to remove the minimal distance between us, telling myself that I need one more taste. One more taste that isn’t interrupted by blood and pain, a taste that I’m prepared to remember for the rest of my life, assuming it will be necessary. And Seifer doesn’t disappoint.

Our mouths clash against each other in a desperate kiss where I want to prove Seifer wrong and Seifer is stubborn enough to think that he has already proved himself right. His tongue has the annoying habit of pinpointing the more sensitive spots in my mouth, as if Seifer knows exactly how to slow down my thoughts and make me want more of him. Needing to regain ground, I slip my tongue beneath his and draw a throaty groan from the larger man, just like I did earlier this morning. I was almost certain that he would taste different after calling upon his inhuman powers, but Seifer is exactly like I remember with his dominate tongue, his strong hand at my waist, his solid chest beneath my hands…

…and then his thigh slips between my legs and presses hard against my crotch, the man making a very clear statement that I’m not prepared to accept.

I jerk back sharply with the harsh moment of clarity, but before I have the freedom to figure out if I should be enraged or reluctantly impressed by his boldness, Seifer loses his balance because of my reaction. He wraps his arms around me in a hasty move and nearly topples us both to the ground when he can’t find the right footing. I manage to brace the impulsive idiot instead of pushing him away, which eventually leaves the blond with a loose arm around my waist and his chin resting on my shoulder.

“Shit, that didn’t go as planned,” he complains against my neck, his voice revealing the exhaustion that probably led to his unsteady balance.

Abusing the chance to regain some distance between us, I strongly suggest, “Use my bed and get some rest before you hurt yourself.”

“Not without you. I’ve already made that clear.”

While I was on the edge of surrendering to his request before Selphie’s call, it now seems like a poor choice given his show of stupidity. If nothing else, I don’t see Seifer getting much sleep when he’s this focused on other things, and given his record thus far, I’m probably the worst distraction there is for the blond.

A harsh laugh reaches my ear, Seifer once again assuming things because of my silence. “God damn it, I can’t win with you, can I? You’re positive that I don’t want you, and yet you’re also suspicious about me taking advantage of your body if we’re within a foot of a bed. You’ve got to tell me, Sherlock, which guy am I? The one who’s straight and confused, or the one who’s going to fuck you whether you want it or not?”

“Are you assuming those choices are mutually exclusive?”

In a sluggish move, Seifer straightens and shows a serious expression. “Or I’m none of the above?”

With a lifted eyebrow, I simply stare at him for the suggestion that doesn’t coincide with the things I know about the blond. While I’m willing to believe that he isn’t the same person he was in high school, that doesn’t mean the foundation of his personality hasn’t changed. Arrogant, unrefined, hot-headed, charismatic, intuitive… There is so much to Seifer, but an open-minded and devoted lover isn’t something I can easily associate to him.

Seifer frowns at my lack of response, and with an irritated curse, he shrugs off his coat. “You know what, just forget it. I’ll deal with this myself and go to my own bed. At least I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that you can’t haunt me if I’m killed first.”

I grab his wrist when he moves to hang up his coat, and with the flat of my thumb, I make certain to clamp down on a particularly painful nerve. “Don’t you dare say it like that.”

With a deep wince, Seifer tries to free his arm while maintaining, “Fuck you, Loire. If you actually cared, if you actually loved me like you claim, then you would give me the benefit of the doubt. Instead, you seem to get real excited at the idea of hurting me, so why don’t you enjoy this moment for what it’s worth? It’s bound to be a great show if that demon finds me again.”

Anger heating my blood, I shove the larger man against the wall and hold him there with a hand wrapped at his throat. “I have never fucking enjoyed your pain. Never.”

His eyes surprisingly calm in his anger, Seifer watches me and cruelly asks, “Why should I believe you?”

Everything stops—my anger, my thoughts, my heart—at the words I’ve used too many times against Seifer. Even when I know his intent was to hurt me, that knowledge doesn’t soften the ache within my chest. Ever since he learned of my misdirected feelings, Seifer hasn’t once questioned them. He may have been confused by their existence and frustrated by my refusal to act on them, but he didn’t doubt my love for him… Not once, until now.

How pathetic to be ruined by Seifer’s childish act to mirror my defensive answer to his constant pleas.

I loosen my hold at his neck and sigh at the bruises beneath my fingers, knowing that I probably caused more damage. With a careful touch, I trace my fingertips along the proof that someone wants him dead, and just like that, one very important thing becomes clear—I can’t let Seifer die because I’m a stubborn fool.

“Go to my bed and wait for me there,” I say while continuing to focus on his bruises. “I want to clean up this mess first.”

Placing his hand over mine, Seifer argues lightly, “And why should I do something like that?”

I look up into bright green eyes and see his hope behind the haze of exhaustion. “Because I might not give you another chance.”

“Hn, there is that,” he agrees with a slight curl to his lips, the victorious hint making me wonder if I had been conned by the blond. The vague smile, however, quickly vanishes to be replaced by a serious look when Seifer insists, “But hey, don’t treat me like I’m useless. I’ll clean up, too.”

With a lifted eyebrow, I glance over my shoulder at the kitchen and the splatter of dried blood.

“Right, I think I’ll leave that to you and I can work over here,” Seifer says as he releases my hand and steps over to pick up a piece of fallen paper.

I watch him for a moment, musing about how this is my hero, a man who controls amazing powers and faces down demons, but also does whatever he can to avoid the sight of blood. I indulge in the thought that my blood makes it that much harder for the blond, and for a second, I almost believe it. Removing my jacket, I place it onto the coat stand before moving into the kitchen and inspecting the damage. There isn’t that much blood since most of it had fallen onto me or else soaked up in the towel I had used, but there’s enough splatter to make things bothersome. And then there is the small matter of the knife sticking out from the pantry door.

Grabbing the handle, I manage to free the knife without damaging the cabinet even further, but the blade isn’t as lucky. Warped just enough to make it useless, I sigh at losing one of my favorite knives. Despite its ruined state, I imagine the knife would have been “lost” anyway with enough time, even if Seifer would deny ever touching the thing. Resigned, I drop the knife into the sink to be handled later, and from the cabinet underneath, I grab a towel and a bottle of cleaner to work on the rest of the kitchen, purposefully ignoring the bout of dizziness when I stand back up.

As expected, it doesn’t take me long to wipe down the counters, cabinets, and floor, even when I go over everything a second time with a new towel. Once finished, I toss the towels into the trash and walk over to where Seifer had picked up the fallen bookshelf and was carefully putting my father’s books back into place. He doesn’t have the order exactly right, but it’s good enough for now. Meanwhile, his eyes are red and his eyelids linger a bit too long with every blink as Seifer stares at the titles. The sight reminds me of my nephew, Alec, when he was three-years-old and would constantly refuse naps with the claim that he wasn’t tired enough to sleep. Alec, however, never demanded for me to take his naps with him.

Seifer finishes with his armload of books before acknowledging me, his eyes soft with need. “Are you done?”

“Hn, I just need to grab my laptop.”

“Your laptop…?”

“I can do some research while you sleep,” I say, but Seifer places a restraining hand against my chest when I take a step toward my desk.

“Did you forget how you’ve had less sleep than me in the last two days?”

“It’s just preliminary research.”

Seifer snorts. “Right, and once you get a hint of something interesting, you’ll run off to investigate it further and try to do so without me. Sorry, but I’m not letting you get started. Sleep first, research later,” he insists while shoving me in the direction of my bedroom.

It’s not surprising how Seifer has caught onto that habit of mine, and unfortunately, I have to acknowledge that he might be right about me pushing things too hard. If nothing else, I could miss an important detail if I attempt to do research while half-asleep and that won’t help anyone. Relenting, I increase my pace to move out of reach of Seifer’s hand and walk toward my bedroom without his unrequested aid.

Once entering my room, I pick up the pillow that had fallen on the floor next to my bed, knowing that it’s same pillow Seifer had held against his chest when I found him late last night. Not wanting to deal with that memory, I toss the pillow back into its proper spot and look over to the other side of the bed where Seifer had moved. My eyebrow lifting in disbelief, I immediately decide that the sight of Seifer removing his jeans wasn’t a distraction I wanted right now.

“Give me a break, Sherlock,” Seifer complains when noticing my look. “I want to get some decent sleep and that means being comfortable. I swear that the boxers aren’t going anywhere.”

It’s a decent point, and while I normally wouldn’t try to sleep within the confines of leather pants, at least not intentionally, there’s no way I’m sharing a bed with Seifer without some kind of barrier to keep me safe. Moving onto the mattress, I lie down on my back and immediately close my eyes, pretending that I’m not doing something incredibly stupid right now. Recognizing the boundaries I’ve set, Seifer breathes a laugh before crawling into bed and lying down with a fair distance between our bodies.

“Hey, Squall…”

Despite myself, I glance over at the blond, his head propped up on a fisted hand in a manner that makes him look like a cliché fragrance model.

His smile not completely arrogant, Seifer says, “Thanks for trusting me this far. I know that it can’t be easy for you.”

“Whatever…”

“Yeah well, for the record, I know that you’re not going to tell me what you think about our kisses, but I think they are something incredible.”

I frown at Seifer for the statement, but I know that his constant assertions of interest are starting to take hold of me. Seifer may enjoy flustering people, but he only goes so far before growing bored of the game, and he has passed that limit a few pledges ago. This is slowly beginning to feel like something different than what I assumed it was.

His smile widening, Seifer flops onto his stomach and burrows into his pillow. “Just thought you’d like to know.”

I close my eyes and curse to myself that, if Seifer actually wanted me to get some rest, he shouldn’t have said something so suggestive.

Forcing my mind into other directions, I focus on the tasks ahead of us with locating more information about the grown children my mother once called students. Even if they are dead, there is plenty of information that we can learn from the way those kids lived their lives in the weeks before they were driven to suicide. Maybe Roth gave them nightmares like he did to my mother, and if they told anyone or wrote down the details, it could help us to find the ghost without getting my mother involved a second time. It’s a longshot, but if it can be done this way, it would be far better than risking my mother’s sanity or Seifer’s safety within the mental hospital.

A half-hour or so passes with similar thoughts, leaving me awake and formulating questions for the parents without being too offensive, and that’s when I hear a strange sound from Seifer. I open my eyes to look at the sleeping blond and find him curled on his side in a slight ball with his arms crossed over his chest. His eyebrows furrowed, Seifer moves his lips as if saying something, but no other noise comes from the man.

Concerned, I inch close enough place my hand at his brow and brush a few strands of hair from his forehead, my mind briefly returning to the other time I touched him like this. It was the night that boy was murdered, and with Seifer seemingly asleep, I thought the stray touch was justified repayment from the blond after he had shaken me with his talk of Heaven. In contrast, the kiss I had placed against his forehead was a selfish desire and nothing nobler than that.

When my thumb drifts to his lips, Seifer moves as if given unspoken permission and wraps his arms around my waist, making me doubt his unconscious state. When I’m about to call his bluff, however, I notice a thin trail of moisture at his cheek before he buries his face against my side. Asleep or not, it’s hard to refuse Seifer the comfort he needs when I have no good reason to deny him that human connection. I place a hand at the back of his bruised neck and rub my thumb along the softer strands of hair, a touch that soothes his breaths into a softer rhythm. It takes another minute longer for his lips to relax from their soundless speech.

As I watch him slip into truer sleep, I reluctantly realize that this is yet another thing Seifer wasn’t lying about. His impossible powers that allow him to view the future, his deceased father wanting to kill me, his desire to help my mother no matter the risk to himself, and now his ability to sleep better when I’m near… And it’s a little troubling to consider what I might believe next from the conniving blond.

==========================================================================

Adjusting my sunglasses to sit better while pressed against fresh gauze, I lean back against the side of my mother’s jeep and view upon the football field covered by trampled snow. A few memories rise to the surface at the sight, mostly of Seifer after an important win and the smile he would show at that hard fought victory. It was an addicting smile, one of raw emotion that hid nothing, and it was always ruined by a cheerleader or some other bouncy girl running up to the blond and kissing him in a dramatic fashion. I’m not certain what made me angrier back then—the whorish actions of those girls or the way Seifer clearly enjoyed the attention.

“Man, this brings back a lot of memories,” Seifer comments as he steps around the front of the jeep. “I’m pretty certain that I spent more time on this field than I did in a classroom. While it ended up being a dumbass move, those were undoubtedly the best years of my life.”

When Seifer moves next to me, he stands closer than appropriate and his lips can’t resist a smug curl at getting his way this morning. My fingers twitch at the idea of wiping that smile from his face, but I know that this is my fault. Seifer obviously needed his rest, and while I had indulged his desire for physical contact, I didn’t anticipate that I would find my own degree of comfort with the large blond attached to my side. When I woke up hours later, I discovered Seifer awake and sliding a finger along the healing injury caused by a broken beer bottle. Against what it should have been, it wasn’t a sensual touch, but something with its own form of intensity that made me shiver all the same.

“What about you, Squall?” he asks with a widening smirk. “Did you see any of my games?”

“… Every one.”

Instead of a victorious laugh, Seifer simply nods at my admission. “I was wondering if that was the case. I saw you a couple times, and all I could think was, ‘What the fuck would make the Ice Prince come out and watch a football game?’ I thought you might have had a thing for one of the marching band geeks or that you liked seeing some of the assholes on my team get plowed in a bad play. I never guessed that I was the reason you came.”

Not liking the sound to his voice, I point out firmly, “You weren’t the reason for all of my decisions, not even most of them.”

“I’m well aware of that, Sherlock,” Seifer comments with a blissful smile, “but enough of your choices were because of me. It makes a guy feel important.”

I huff at his nonsense and push up from the jeep to walk toward the far goal post. Seifer moves quickly to match my pace, and while he does a decent job of making it appear accidental, his ungloved hand brushes against mine. The fleeting touch makes me wonder about the depths of Seifer’s need for physical contact and whether or not I could escape his hold if I gave into his demands… But that isn’t what makes me wary of the blond. If he held me forever, that would be the fantasy ending that I’ve wanted for too long. No, what makes me afraid to accept his love is the uncertainty of when he’d let me go and how hard I’d fall.

“Over here, Sherlock,” Seifer says from several yards away, drawing me out of unwanted thoughts. “I guess the guy decided to get comfortable while waiting for the elevator to Heaven or Hell.”

Trusting his sight, I follow after the blond as he walks toward the taller set of stands that are painted deep blue and pale silver, the colors of the home team. Seifer moves toward the end of the bleachers and stops in the middle of the track lanes that encircle the field. With a sigh, Seifer shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat and looks up into the stands, his green eyes unwavering as he stares at the empty seats.

“Hey there, Nida,” Seifer greets as if meeting with a lost friend. “Enjoying the view around here?”

Unable to take part in the conversation, I watch the blond as he speaks to the deceased teenager. Seifer and I have already discussed about the questions that should be asked, but while I wait for that first question, I notice the rapid shift of emotions that flit across Seifer’s face before his lips pull back into a sneer and his eyebrows furrow in anger.

“Say that again,” he demands in a growl.

Recognizing that his tone holds more fear than anger, I move closer with the thought to ask him what is happening, but I hesitate when a thin flow of white light emerges from his shoulders and covers most of his back. The light isn’t as dense as when he had fought against his father, but the visible form of his power is there nonetheless. Watching that silent flow of energy, I decide that I have spent too much time around Seifer and his romantic talk since, like times before, the white light seems to follow a specific set of lines that almost, in an abstract fashion, look like…

“Wait a—God _damn_ it! Fucking sorry excuse of a ghost…” Seifer spits out as he turns sharply, surprising me almost as much as himself when he finds me a closer than before. His mood shifts to show his pleasure at my approach, but that lightness is promptly lost to a disappointed frown. “Sorry, Squall, but this is a dead-end. Nida knew exactly why we came here and he wants nothing to do with it.”

While it’s a disappointing response, I was prepared for the possibility. “He’s still afraid of Roth.”

“Oh, it gets better than that. He had some advice for me,” Seifer says with a glare in the direction of the empty stands. “He said that no one escapes Roth a second time.”

I frown at the supposed advice, uncertain what purpose it could serve. To my knowledge, Seifer didn’t know Roth prior to my mother’s kidnapping, and with him unable to decipher his dreams to figure out the man’s location, Seifer didn’t meet the living person. Meanwhile, Seifer has only mentioned being haunted by his father and no other ghost. Nothing else has attacked or threatened Seifer…

Except…

My breath is lost when my eyes lower to the dark scarf covering Seifer’s throat and the bruises beneath.

A shaky laugh comes from the blond. “You never disappoint, Sherlock.”

Unable to accept my own theory despite Seifer’s implied confirmation, I point out, “You said a demon came after you, not a ghost.”

“I saw a black shape in my dreams—what the fuck else was I supposed to assume it was?” Seifer bites out defensively, but he then adds more calmly, “There was nothing human in what I saw, and really, knowing what we know about Roth, I’m not certain ‘human’ was the right word for him anyway.”

I stare at the blond as my thoughts stall, refusing the possibility that I could lose both my mother and Seifer to a man who died over a decade ago and shouldn’t have any influence in the living world. Worst of all, I can’t touch the sadistic bastard. There is nothing I can do, nothing except place my trust in Seifer and shove him into one dangerous situation after another when this isn’t his problem. From the beginning, he had no real reason to do any of this. His mother isn’t the one in danger, and he never met the children from her class. There isn’t a reason to risk his life for any of this… No reason except for one possibility that I have refused to believe thus far.

“I don’t know if it’s true,” Seifer amends even as he pulls at his scarf. “Ghosts get confused all of the time, and the kid could be fucking with me because he can, but… I think it makes a weird kind of sense. I have felt the aura Roth leaves around your mother—it’s dark and ugly, and it’s exactly the kind of stain a terrorizing demon would leave behind.”

I automatically lift a hand to my forehead and wince when my fingers press against gauze. “But it _doesn’t_ make sense, Seifer. You told me that the demon was the ‘Johnny Strangler.’ How can that thing also be Roth?”

“Because he’s good at what he does,” Seifer counters, his green eyes flicking to the goal post where Nida had taken his life. “You told me how the kid had carved the words, ‘I can’t,’ into his arm, but the way he exists in death, those words and similar ones are sliced all over his body. ‘I can’t,’ ‘I won’t,’ and ‘Never’… They all look fresh, too, like he took a knife to his body just minutes ago.”

I cross my arms over my chest, uncomfortable with the suggestion that Nida’s ghost shows the invisible wounds from his life. Seifer was reluctant to describe what he sees when we go to the mental hospital, but he did explain how the ghosts of the insane aren’t like other spirits. In death, they show the physical form of their sickness, and for Nida to show such wounds, Roth had apparently reached the teen’s very soul and tore him apart. Worse, no one noticed or cared enough to get Nida the help he needed before he could place his hand on a length of rope.

While it pains me to see my mother in a mental hospital, I now understand that she is probably alive because she’s in a place where suicide isn’t an easy task to achieve.

“Roth knows how to twist minds,” Seifer continues, “and while he didn’t say it straight-out, I got the sense that Nida killed himself before Roth could convince him to do something terrible. With Nida gone, what if Roth got to someone else? Maybe someone who hasn’t been seen in a while?”

I frown at the implication of his words. “You think Zack is the Strangler.”

Seifer shrugs and reasons, “That kid witnessed every horrible deed that was done to your mother, and after he was rescued, he was treated to a sadist ghost trailing after him. I don’t know about you, but I think serial killers have been born from a lot gentler stuff than that.”

I don’t want to even consider his theory. I don’t want to believe that one of the children saved along with my mother is now a killer himself, but even as I think that, I know I’m letting emotion get in the way of reason. If I want to save my mother and possibly others, I need to look at everything with a clear mind and consider every solution, no matter how ugly an option may be.

“A person doesn’t start with killing children,” I rationalize out loud. “If Zack is doing this, there should have been signs before he disappeared.”

“In other words, you have some really awkward questions to ask his parents.”

With a sigh, I accept the truth of Seifer’s words. It’s not the most pleasant of situations, but I’ve had worse discussions with parents over the years. In a strange way, it may be a relief to his parents to learn that their son, despite his crimes, could still be alive after all of these months. Of my various clients, I find the parents of lost children to be the most tiring. They never stop believing in a happy ending, which means practical thinking and planning for the worst are rarely welcomed when it comes to speaking with distressed parents. If I had my choice in cases, I’d rather vengeful spouses over lost children any day of the week.

“Hey, what’re you guys doing here?”

The vaguely familiar voice sounds from downfield, and glancing over my shoulder, I watch the approach of two young teenagers. Due to the crocheted scarf covering most of his face and a similar hat concealing spiky brown hair, I don’t immediately recognize Riku’s friend, not that I’ve spoken to him for longer than a few minutes. The other teen with him is clearly not Riku or even male, but I can’t place a name to the young woman with deep red hair. Considering their matching scarves, I decide that crocheting may be a hobby of hers. From what little I know about Sora, the boy doesn’t seem the type to sit in one place and work on crafty project to the end.

“Well, if isn’t the munchkin,” Seifer says with an easy smile. “And who’s this pretty thing with you?”

The girl frowns and wraps thin arms across her chest. “I don’t give my name to strange men.”

“It’s okay, Kairi,” Sora assures with a laughing voice. “These are the guys who found Riku when he went missing. Squall is cool, but Riku warned me that this other guy is an ass and that we shouldn’t listen to him.”

While the red-haired girl partly relaxes at the information, Seifer mutters something under his breath about ungrateful virgins and returning a gift box of small condoms.

Pulling his scarf down to free his nose and mouth, Sora asks, “So, what are you guys doing here? Don’t tell me that… Are you looking for Riku again?”

Seifer snorts at the question. “We’re not some kind of posse to that boyfriend of yours, kid. We have better things to do than dealing with his emo-ass.”

“Boyfriend…?” Sora squeaks.

At the sign that things didn’t go as we had assumed for the boys, Seifer stares with surprise in his green eyes… until a more mischievous gleam brightens his gaze, prompting me to speak before the blond can cause further damage.

“We’re here for a case of mine,” I say with a pointed glare at the scheming blond.

“A case?” Kairi speaks up with concern highlighting her voice. “Did something happen here? Are the police involved?”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about,” I respond, but instead of easing their minds, I receive matching stares of annoyed disbelief from the pair of teens. Apparently they have learned to not trust that particular phrase, perhaps from their friend Riku. I can imagine him telling them those exact words in the days before he ran off, planning to never see his friends again.

“Don’t get so riled, kiddos,” Seifer says with a wave of his hand. “We’re looking into a suicide that happened here earlier this year. Maybe you heard of it?”

Sora’s expressive eyes widen at the information. “You’re talking about Nida.”

“You knew him,” I say given the tone of his voice.

“Yeah… Yeah, I did, but why do you care about him? Was he in some kind of trouble?”

“More than you could’ve guessed, kid,” Seifer murmurs, earning confused stares from the pair of teens.

“They don’t need to hear about that,” I warn quietly.

“Hear what?” Sora demands with a firm step forward. “Do you know something about Nida? Do you know why he took his life, or why he never told anybody about what he was thinking?”

Seifer sighs at the string of questions. “Sorry, but I think Squall is right with this one. It’d be better if you didn’t know the details.”

“Don’t decide that for me,” Sora argues with a shimmer of moisture to his eyes. “No one would’ve noticed anything if Nida didn’t kill himself at school, and even then, people barely blinked at his death. Nida was practically my brother, and now he’s _gone_ and no one else cares, so don’t tell me what I can or can’t handle.”

Seifer glances at me for permission, but I’m distracted by Sora’s attachment to a teenager three or four years his elder. “How was it that you knew Nida?”

Sora hesitates with a frown, but still replies, “We lived in the same house. It was my third foster home, and other than Riku, he was the first guy to sit and listen to what I needed to say.”

With that answer, Riku’s half-formed comment about Sora not having a “real family” makes sense, as well as the reason behind the boy’s ill-fitting clothes and his slow physical development. While there are plenty of loving foster families within the system, there are also the people who only do it for the money and subsequently forget about the children they are supposed to watch over. It’s disappointing, but there’s only so much a society is willing to do for the unwanted souls out there… or the ugly stains, depending on the point of view.

“Are you happy now? Will you tell me what you know about Nida?” Sora asks with a pleading edge to his voice.

“We can, but you won’t find any comfort in the information we have,” I warn the boy, but by his firm stare, I know that he won’t believe me until hearing the words for himself. I nod in respect of his stubbornness and relent, “Nida was being terrorized by a sadist. We think that man wanted to control Nida’s life, and Nida took it back in the only way he knew how.”

“Somebody did that to Nida…?” Sora asks in a shocked breath. “But… _who?_ Who would do that to him? And _why?_ ”

“This is going to be a hard pill to swallow, kid,” Seifer interjects, “but some assholes out there don’t need a deep reason to fuck up other people. They do it for shits and giggles, and everyone else suffers for it.”

“But…” Sora hits a fisted hand against his thigh. “Nida was a _good guy_. He always tried his hardest, but he was never recognized for it. He even had perfect grades, but some girl was selected as valedictorian because she had good grades and did debate or something. Nida had a part-time job and couldn’t do things like that. He couldn’t even go to college because of money, and I thought…” Sora takes a breath and continues, “I _thought_ that’s why he killed himself, and now you’re telling me that somebody drove him to it? For a _laugh_?”

There is no response to offer the teen, even when there should be. Nida may have been targeted because of his connection to my mother, but if Fate was kinder, none of them should have crossed paths with Roth in the first place. Roth selected my mother out of every other woman in this city to torture and eventually kill. According to the profilers back then, he chose Raine due to her faint resemblance to his abusive and deceased mother. I’ve seen pictures of the woman and I don’t think she looks anything like my mother. The reality is that only one person can possibly understand the motives behind the terrible crimes he committed, and I don’t particularly want to know anything from the depths of Roth’s mind.

Sapphire eyes fix on mine. “Who did this?”

I almost smile at the question had I demanded of Cid so many years ago, but it’s disappointing that my answer has to be the same as his—“There’s nothing you can do.”

“ _But—_ “ He’s interrupted by a hand grabbing onto his arm.

“Sora,” Kairi says in a scolding tone. “Didn’t you hear them earlier? This is a case of theirs. They are going to do something about that guy. Isn’t that right?” she asks with a glance in my direction.

While I simply nod, Seifer decides to offer a more dramatic response. “Don’t worry, kid. Squall is going to find him, and once I get my hands on the bastard, he won’t be able to hurt another soul ever again.”

Kairi rubs her hand along the boy’s arm. “See, Sora? They are going to handle it. You don’t need to do anything stupid.”

With a betrayed looks to his eyes, Sora asks, “Is it stupid to want to help a friend?”

“No, of course not, but you don’t always think about the consequences. How many more times are Riku and I going to have to see you with bruises or a broken arm because you tried to help a friend?” When Sora winces at the question, Kairi plows on ahead, “This isn’t a normal person, either. If that man was able to hurt Nida like he did, I think it’s better to leave this one to more experienced people.”

Biting his lower lip, Sora maintains, “I still want to help.”

An elbow nudges my side, and when I glare at the interfering blond, he glares back and nods toward the teen. Sighing at his soft spot for the pair of boys, I suggest, “Perhaps you can tell us about Nida and the last months before his death.”

Blue eyes brighten at the chance to talk about his friend. “Really? But will that actually help?”

“Why do you think we’re here, kid?” Seifer asks with a pleased grin. “We don’t know where the man is hiding, but Nida did. If we know what Nida was up to, we might be able to find the bastard who did this to him.”

His smile relieved, Sora says, “You two really are doing this, aren’t you? I mean, you care about what happened?”

“More than you know,” I reply under my breath.

Apparently satisfied without a clearer response, Sora begins, “Well, what do you need to know? I mean, Nida was kind of secretive, but if anyone knows something, it’s me.”

Kairi wraps her arms around her chest. “How about we go somewhere warmer first? The school is closed for the winter break, but they open up the gym for students. That’s where we were going, actually. If we ask the teacher, we might be able to use a classroom.”

“Sounds like a wise plan to me,” Seifer readily agrees as he takes a step forward and slaps a hand against Sora’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go figure out how to hunt down that bastard and make him pay.”

With a firm nod, Sora walks alongside the large blond toward the school, quite the mismatched pair as they trudge through old snow. I move to follow them, but Kairi clears her throat in a purposeful manner, sounding a bit too much like a grown woman on a mission.

“Riku told me that you’re helping him with his… problem?” Kairi probes, her voice low enough to not attract her friend’s attention.

I lift an eyebrow in response, uninterested in speaking about the silver-haired teen’s personal issues without his consent.

Kairi smiles when apparently getting the answer she wanted. “Riku has been struggling for a long time, and while he seems calmer when Sora is around, I can see it in his eyes how he needs more. And the stupid thing is that Sora cares about him, too, but he’s younger and hasn’t realized that part of himself yet. If they were the same age, maybe they would’ve realized things together.”

I glance at Seifer’s back, the blond not yet recognizing that we haven’t joined them. “Age doesn’t solve everything.”

“I know, but… I love them both so much and I want the best for them, sort of like you and your boyfriend.”

My teeth clench at the second assumption by these kids that Seifer and I are involved, as if being with another person was as simple as standing next to him. Before I can point out that fact, however, the unexpected roar of a motorcycle draws my attention to the street beyond the chain link fence lining the back-end of the field. The bike is one of those overdone types, bigger and louder than necessary, and it looks even larger given the relatively small stature of its rider. Dressed in dark pants and a black trench coat, the idiot rider had decided against a helmet and openly stares at us through a pair of stylized sunglasses. By first impression alone, there’s something I don’t like about the guy.

“… Cloud?”

I glance down at Kairi, her hand lifted to her mouth in surprise while she focuses intently on the rider.

Hurried footsteps sound in snow before the motorcycle roars again and speeds off down the street, making me sigh at another moron making a bad name for people who ride.

“Hey Kairi, was that really Cloud?” Sora asks.

Kairi nods, “I think so.”

Trailing behind the teen at a more casual pace, Seifer asks, “Was that a friend of yours?”

“Kind of,” Sora replies. “He lived in the same house as Nida and me, but I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

“His real name is Michael Strife,” Kairi adds, “but he has this way of staring out into space. It makes him kind of flighty and someone gave him the nickname ‘Cloud,’ you know, like with his head up in the clouds? It kind of stuck.”

“And did you see what he was riding? I swear that was Zack’s bike.”

“Zack?” I say, my mind leaping to impossible conclusions. “That wouldn’t be… Zack Fair, would it?”

Blue eyes blinking, Sora replies, “Yeah, do you know him? Or wait, maybe you found out that he was friends with Nida? They were pretty close.”

I glance toward Seifer, the blond frowning with his own amount of surprise at the connection between the two youths. Normally, it’d be safe to assume that they would have parted ways in order to avoid reliving their shared tragedy, but apparently they found a measure of comfort in staying friends and depending on each other instead.

Sora folds his arms behind his head and describes further, “Nida told me that they knew each other from way back in elementary school. When Nida moved to the home out this way, Zack would still make time to visit. Cloud started to tag along with them at some point. The thing is, I swore Cloud didn’t like that bike. He always got so nervous at the idea of riding it that he’d get sick to his stomach.”

“But Zack liked to threaten Cloud with giving him that motorcycle,” Kairi says with a weak smile. “Remember, Zack talked about joining the army and saving the world from bad guys. He had a plan for all of the stuff he’d have to leave behind. Nida’s death was hard on him, and since he didn’t have a reason to stay, I assumed Zack finally did what he wanted. Cloud having that motorcycle probably proves it.”

When Sora nods in agreement, I pray for the pair that their theory about the teen is true. It’s far kinder than the other reasons I have considered behind Zack’s disappearance.

“Alright, kids,” Seifer says with a clap of his hands. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m frozen. How about a change in plans and we take this to someplace else with a heater and hot drinks? In repayment for your information, of course.”

Kairi shows a suspicious glance at the blond, but Sora brightens at the idea and begins to rattle off suggestions as Seifer herds them toward the jeep. I notice that Ward’s diner is one of the first choices by the spiky-haired youth, but Seifer promptly tries to dissuade him into another option. As the others walk off, I linger a moment and look over at the empty bleachers. I don’t know if the ghost is there or somewhere else, but I can’t walk away without telling Nida one last thing:

“When everything is finished, we’ll come back and tell you. Maybe then you can heal.”

==========================================================================

My laptop resting on crossed legs, I stare at the photo on the screen that shows three teenagers sitting on a set of stairs. The oldest teen sports black hair spiked with more than enough gel, and he smiles with an open and free smile while wrapping a muscular arm around the neck of another dark-haired teen. In contrast, there’s nothing striking about the second boy with his meek smile, slight build, and plain clothes, and it’s no surprise that the boy was often lost in the background. At the other end of the photo is a youth with blond hair spiked in a similar fashion as the bolder teen, but he doesn’t smile while holding a bent leg against his chest. The space between him and the pair of close friends is palpable, and judging by the focus of his pale eyes, it’s something unwanted.

Staring at the photo, I feel bothered and anxious while trying to understand what happened to these boys and how we can prevent another needless death. The answer should be there, but finding it is another matter.

“God, you can’t still be doing that shit,” Seifer complains as he lifts his head from my pillow, using his arm braced around my waist for support. His eyes squinting from the light of the laptop, Seifer focuses on the leftmost teen. “Well hey, isn’t that Nida? And let me guess—the other two are Zack and that one kid, Cloud or whatever.”

“Kairi found it on her computer. She thought it might help.”

“A good kid, that one,” Seifer says tiredly and slumps back down to the mattress. “So, why are you awake and not sleeping with me?”

“I think I’m too frustrated to sleep,” I reply as I lift a hand to rub my eyes. “The problem in dealing with minors is that the available information out there is minimal at best. Even Selphie’s research doesn’t provide much insight. Meanwhile, I feel like I’m on the edge of something, but I don’t know how to find that last bit of information we need to reach the answer we’re looking for.”

Seifer hums at my tired rambling. “That’s great, so five more minutes?”

At the suggestion that he isn’t listening to me, I glance down at the blond and find Seifer with his eyes closed and his body relaxed in a sign that he’s more asleep than awake at this point. I indulge in a smile at his childlike way of falling right back to sleep after being wakened, and before I realize what I’m doing, I stroke my fingers through the soft spikes of his hair. Seifer purrs in satisfaction at the touch and tightens his hold around my waist without opening his eyes, the man boldly continuing his sham of being asleep. Bastard, he obviously has me figured out more than I thought.

Staring at this man lying on my bed, I try to pinpoint the moment that things went so completely out of my control. I knew that giving Seifer any leeway would result in him shouldering his way into a spot of his own making, but allowing him in my bed wasn’t the beginning of my troubles. Perhaps it was foolish to surrender to his unexpected demand for a kiss, but then again, it was even more foolish to bring Seifer into my home from the start. I should have never searched for him, not when he was finally becoming little more than a memory... which is nothing more than a lie. I would have never forgotten the man who had snuck into my heart and made me believe in his impossible dreams of my lost mother.

But to reach the core of all those events, I should go back even further to middle school and the day I returned to my locker for a forgotten textbook. If I had remembered that damn book, I wouldn’t have stumbled upon Seifer kissing some nameless girl. If I hadn’t seen that insignificant even, I wouldn’t have spent the subsequent years wondering how he would taste, and when given the opportunity, I wouldn’t have taken the risk to discover that the only possible description for his kisses is that they taste just like Seifer. A perfect, overpowering taste that almost makes my years of frustration seem worthwhile…

And apparently this is little more than a lesson in futility.

Sighing, I remove my hand from soft hair and close my laptop to immerse my bedroom in darkness. After placing the device onto my nightstand, I maneuver myself into a resting position without disturbing Seifer, but end up with my shirt raised to my chest and his arms somehow settled within that area of exposed flesh. It’s particularly suspicious how one of his hands rests directly on top of the injury that Seifer had been examining this afternoon.

Whatever action I could take next becomes moot when harsh banging sounds from the front of the condo, the noise loud enough to startle Seifer into sitting up.

“What the _fuck_... Is someone trying to ram down your door?”

I stare past the open door of my bedroom, and after a silent debate about what would happen if I stayed in bed instead of answering the heavy knocks, I come to the reluctant decision that the door can withstand only so much abuse. I slide out of bed and take my time walking to the front room despite the increased strength to the knocking. I switch on the light in the moment before I unlock and open the door, catching the man outside in mid-knock.

“You’re disturbing the neighbors,” I warn in a cool tone.

Ward glares with an anger I haven’t witnessed in a long time, and that anger deepens when pale eyes focus on the gauze on my face. “Where is he?”

Unafraid of the large man, I move into a firmer position between him and my home. “I take it that my father spoke to you about what happened?”

“He told both of us,” another voice speaks out.

Surprised, I glance to the side and find a man with dark brown skin leaning against the wall, hidden in the shadow of the stairwell. “Kiros?”

The lean man smiles with a flash of white teeth. “It’s been a while, Squall. I see that you still enjoy causing Ward’s blood pressure to top the charts.”

I huff at his attempt to push the blame onto me. The truth is that Ward once was a man who was difficult to anger and had an encouraging personality, but that changed when my mother’s kidnapping occurred. His family was hurt in a way that could never be undone, and now he becomes irrational whenever a new threat enters our lives. While Kiros denies it, he has also developed a habit to overreact, although he seems to get his satisfaction out of watching Ward do the dirty work while spurring him on.

“Shit, is that the old man? Is there an emergency or something?”

And of course Seifer would be curious about what was urgent enough to wake us this late into the night. The fact that he wandered out of my bedroom while wearing boxers and an old undershirt isn’t going to help matters.

A heavy hand clamps down on my shoulder and Ward pulls me aside. Before I can properly react, my wrist is grabbed by a different hand as Kiros keeps me in place. Stunned by the coordinated actions of my godfathers, I lose precious seconds while Ward approaches Seifer, grabs the front of his shirt, and punches the blond in the stomach hard enough such that Seifer’s bare feet lift from the ground. Frantic, I slip free of Kiros’ hold in a clumsy but effective move and dart forward before Ward can strike Seifer a second time. I grab his arm when he pulls back for another punch and kick out my leg to the back of his knee, succeeding in unbalancing the large man. Ward drops to the floor in a loud crash, and I’m instantly there with my bent leg pressed against his thick neck.

“Don’t _ever_ hurt him.”

Dazed and most of his breath lost, Ward forces out, “He hurt… you first…”

I scowl at the trapped man. “What do you mean?”

“He means those new twenty-one stitches of yours,” Kiros says from a different position.

When I look up, I find the dark-skinned man standing in the kitchen and staring in the sink. My chest tightens when he uses a gloved hand to pick up the bent knife I forgot to throw away in a safe manner. Kiros makes things more difficult when he produces a plastic bag from somewhere and places the knife inside.

“Seifer helps me in the kitchen,” I inform the police officer turned security specialist. “There are other reasons for his prints to be on the handle.”

“I’ll keep that in consideration,” Kiros replies as he closes the bag.

“I don’t know what Dad told you, but Seifer didn’t attack me,” I insist.

“Then who did?”

Meeting dark eyes, I see that he’s waiting for the wrong answer and the opportunity to pounce on what sounds like insanity. When no other plausible reply comes to mind, I take a chance. “It was his father.”

Kiros scoffs. “His father, a man who was murdered about twenty years ago while serving his sentence in the prison upstate, somehow held a knife to you and cut up your face? That’s quite impressive.”

I shouldn’t be surprised, but that’s more detail than I was expecting from the man. “How did you find out about that?”

“I do all of Ward’s background checks,” Kiros reminds me. “However, I will admit to digging a little deeper when I learned that his new hire was your latest mistake.”

I open my mouth to argue, but I’m beaten out by the sound of harsh laughter. I turn to look at Seifer seated on my couch, the blond slumped over with his arms wrapped around his stomach. While I’ve never been on the receiving side of one of Ward’s punches, I know the damage that they can cause. Seifer is going to have a nasty bruise in the morning, which he’ll no doubt try to use as a sympathy card to swindle another concession from me.

“Shit, if everyone else thinks we’re doing it, remind me again why we haven’t gone the distance?”

“Don’t make this worse,” I warn.

“That’s not my plan, but we both know that they have no reason to believe me,” Seifer says in a strange tone that somehow sounds determined and resigned in the same breath. “I was lucky with you, Squally-boy, but your uncles are going to need some kind of proof.”

Knowing what I do about his powers, there is no proof that Seifer can offer to support his claims. His dreams come and go, and even if a ghost is lurking behind either Ward or Kiros, I doubt there’s anything a ghost can say that would convince them that Seifer has the true abilities of a medium. I scowl at the blond, trying to convey my concern, but he shows a smile at my silent argument, a pathetic smile that makes me even more worried.

Kiros rounds the kitchen counter and places the bagged knife on a stool. “You think you have proof?”

“I think so,” Seifer replies. “At least, I’m assuming there are certain details you never shared with Squall about his mother’s kidnapping.”

Ward tenses beneath me and Kiros’ expression goes blank, serving as more of an answer than anything verbal.

“You… didn’t tell me everything?” I ask, betrayal sounding in my voice.

“Squall…” Ward starts in a placating tone, but I stop him with more weight placed against his neck.

“You _told_ me that nothing would be hidden from me. You _showed_ me the police report.”

“Not everything gets into a report,” Kiros comments while eyeing Seifer.

“I trusted you, and for you to do this—“

“Give them a break,” Seifer surprisingly speaks out for the pair of men.

I turn my anger to the blond. “You lied to me, too.”

“No, I made a promise to your mother. Alive, or dead, or somewhere in between, she didn’t want your memory of her to be tainted by what that bastard did, and frankly, she deserves her way more than you.” With a nod of his chin toward the older men, Seifer adds, “And if I’m right, Mrs. Loire forced those two into a promise, too.”

I look to Kiros, and when he bows his head, I accept the reason for their deceit, not that I like it. Pushing up from Ward, I step to the couch and glare down at Seifer. “What proof do you have for them?”

Seifer smirks at the demand. “Sorry, but a promise is a promise, and if your parents are ever going to accept me, I can’t break my word to your mom.”

“You single-minded idiot…”

“He has a point,” Ward grunts as he stands up. “There are things even your father doesn’t know about, and being the man he is, he never asked.”

“I’m not my father,” I point out.

“No, you certainly aren’t,” Ward agrees with a slight smile, “but you both love Raine and would respect her wishes to the very end.”

Never making that specific pledge to my mother, I cross my arms over my chest, determined to stay and hear whatever Seifer believes would sway the two former police officers into believing his word.

“Enough, Squall,” Kiros says. “If you want us to trust your ‘friend’ here, then wait outside while he gives us his so-called proof. Otherwise, we leave for tonight, and he had better be gone by the morning.”

Rebelling against his threat, I close my eyes while trying to think of a method to turn things my way, but no easy option comes to mind. Meanwhile, Seifer is so close to rebuilding his life, and all of that progress could fall apart if he is forced out of my home and loses his job at Ward’s diner. I could easily support him, but money isn’t what Seifer needs. If his pride is damaged one more time, there is no telling what the idiot may try to do.

“Hey Sherlock,” Seifer says in soft voice to gain my attention. “I swear that if this meant anything, I would tell you, but some of the things that happened to your mom were senseless and beyond cruel. It’s nothing a mother’s child should have to hear, even when the child is as neurotic as you are.”

“’Neurotic’?” I repeat irritably.

“You can’t analyze every situation to fit your obsessive need for logic,” Seifer maintains with a quiet gleam to his eyes. “More often than not, there isn’t reason for why bad things happen.”

I frown at being given a line that’s similar to the one he gave Sora, a kid half my age, but that doesn’t make the sentiment a lie. Glancing at my uncles, I finally get the hint that I’m not going to win this argument, and if I want Seifer to be free to act against the ghost terrorizing my mother, I can’t continue to fight this pointless battle. Uncrossing my arms, I reluctantly nod and walk toward the front door.

“This had better be worth it,” I grumble, not that anyone assures me of that fact.

Childishly, I go outside without my jacket and lean against the wall close to the door. A part of me was hoping that I’d be able to hear them, but they keep their voices low as I try to guess what terrible things had happened to my mother. I already know about the cuts to her breasts, the electrocution burns at her more sensitive regions, and the violations to her body. Ward didn’t include the pictures when he gave me a copy of the police report, but I’ve seen enough crime photos to know what those injuries would have looked like. To think that there’s something else, something worse, and everyone is bound by a promise to keep that something from me…

I frown when I realize an inconsistency with Seifer’s story. I know for a fact that Seifer never met my mother before the other week, at least not in the physical world, which potentially leaves me with one of two options. Either Seifer is lying about my mother asking him to keep things from me, or else… my mother died at some point and Seifer’s powers brought them together long enough for her to force him into a promise.

I swallow thickly at the mere idea of my mother crossing the line into death, and while I have nothing to back up my theory, I don’t know if I can bring myself to ask Seifer if that is what happened. I’m fairly certain that he would tell me if I asked the right question, but… My mother is alive, and I don’t want to imagine her in death. And damn it, maybe those bastards are right and it’s better if I don’t know certain details. It may be irritating to have the truth withheld from me, but it could be worse to know the consequences of being unable to find her faster.

I don’t know how long I stand there lost in my thoughts, but eventually, the door opens and Seifer steps outside to hand me a blanket. Despite the freezing temperature, I don’t take the blanket from him, earning a sigh from the blond.

“You know, you’ve been out here for almost an hour. You’ll have icicles growing out of your nose any moment now.” When I continue to refuse the blanket, Seifer shrugs and says, “Your loss,” before wrapping the fleece over his shoulders.

“What did you tell them?”

“Almost everything: the basics about my dreams, the things I saw in the vision about your mom, and how I went to you with what little information I had.” With a glance to the closed door, Seifer says, “They’re talking about me right now, trying to come up with another rational explanation for how I know the things I know.”

“They won’t be able to,” I say with confidence.

“Maybe, but man, that was one weird-ass interrogation. They didn’t say anything or ask any questions for most of the time you’ve been out here. They just stood there, listened to whatever I decided to tell them, and after a few questions about the interior of that shed, they told me to wait outside.”

“They think you’re a con artist,” I remind him. “People who master the ruse of being a psychic have the knack of reading into a person’s actions and words. Kiros and Ward didn’t want to feed you any information with a careless question or the wrong look.”

“Huh, if that’s the case, then maybe I should have pointed out how I’m oblivious when it comes to knowing what other people are thinking. But then again, they might not have appreciated the use of your hidden feelings for me as an example,” Seifer says, his eyes glancing my way in search of a reaction, but when one doesn’t come, he smirks and slumps against the wall at the other side of the door. “Speaking of which, I haven’t had the chance to thank you for coming to my rescue. Honestly, I’m a little surprised that you put me ahead of that giant.”

“Ward had no reason to attack you like that.”

“Actually, in his mind, he had a very good reason.”

I glare at the blond with the message that Ward’s rationale was flawed and full of biased assumptions.

“Hey now, he thought you had landed yourself an abusive boyfriend. I think I respect him more for attacking me first and asking questions later. I would’ve done the same thing if I learned that someone was using you as a cutting board.”

“I’m not helpless,” I remind the blond.

“That doesn’t change anything to someone who loves you and wants to keep you safe. It’s sort of like how you told that ogre of an uncle that he isn’t allowed hurt me. ‘Not ever,’ I believe you said,” Seifer says with a conspiring smile. “’Not ever’ is a very long time, you know.”

“Apparently I was caught up in the moment.”

“Is that all it was? And here I got my hopes up thinking that you’d always be my hero.”

“Who’d save a moron like you?” I murmur under my breath, but by Seifer’s soft chuckle, he still got the general message.

A soft click sounds before the door opens, revealing Kiros at the entryway. His dark eyes glance one side to view Seifer and then back toward me, some interest highlighting his gaze either due to the distance between us or else because I refused Seifer’s offer of the blanket. Whatever his thoughts, it becomes a moot point when he lifts the plastic bag holding the bent knife stained with my blood.

“I’m still taking this,” Kiros says, allowing no argument, “but I’ll believe him for now.”

“Kiros…” I whisper in relief.

“Don’t think you’re out of the woods yet,” Kiros warns as he places a hand at my shoulder. “Ward is waiting for you inside. Both of you.”

I nod in acceptance of my uncle needing more than a story from Seifer, but when I try to move inside, Kiros tightens his hold and bends in close.

“You look good, son. Like you finally have a purpose in life,” Kiros says in a low voice next to my ear. “Perhaps that’s why I’m eager to believe this latest ‘mistake’ of yours.”

As I stare in disbelief, Kiros pats my back while walking past and then makes his way down the stairs. I almost think to follow him and demand to know what he finds worthwhile about Seifer, especially when Kiros hasn’t shown any restraint when voicing his disapproval toward the other men in my past, but Kiros isn’t the type to give straightforward answers. If anything, Kiros may approve of Seifer simply because I refuse to make things easy for the blond.

With a shake of my head to clear my thoughts, I ignore Seifer’s watchful eye and walk past him to go back into my home. Once inside, my gaze settles on Ward, the large man seated on the couch Seifer had occupied earlier. His elbow braced against the armrest, Ward holds a fisted hand beneath his chin and stares at the bookshelf that displays my father’s collection of novels. His posture slumped and his eyes tired, it’s almost like Ward has aged several years in the last hour, and I have to smother the returned desire to know what secrets they are keeping from me.

His eyes not moving, Ward seems to muse out loud when he asks, “Why in the world did you believe in something as ridiculous as a dream?”

A little annoyed by having that question constantly directed at me, I comment, “Kiros didn’t seem bothered by it.”

Ward snorts at the comparison. “While I thought it was a joke of his, Kiros would tell stories about his grandmother and how she could read the future using chicken bones and handmade talismans. Before he left just now, he said that his ‘Gran’ would be in good company with this one.”

I hum at the memory of Kiro’s stories about his eccentric grandmother, although I admit to sharing Ward’s assumption that Kiros wasn’t a believer when it came to her supposed abilities.

Closing his eyes, Ward recounts, “When your mother was missing, I remember the moment when you forced your way into Cid’s office. To this day, I don’t know what you said to convince him to look into Stephen Roth, a man who wasn’t even on our radar, but I never questioned it since we were able to save Raine with that information. I realize now that I should have been more skeptical.”

“Cid didn’t want to believe me, not at first,” I say in correction. “He made me come back with proof.”

Ward scoffs. “And what proof was that? The word of a so-called psychic? Or maybe you showed him a tarot card or two?”

Irritated at his sarcasm, I tell him plainly, “It was a speeding ticket.”

Pale eyes widen a fraction at my statement, but Ward isn’t the one to voice his surprise about that piece of information.

“Wait a minute there,” Seifer growls, placing a firm hand at my shoulder. “After the _hours_ of interrogation you put me through back then, it all came down to a random speeding ticket I saw pinned to a wall?”

I shake my head at his assumption. “It wasn’t random. With some prodding, you were able to recall a few digits of the ticket number, and you also swore that the signature said ‘doggie door.’”

Eyebrows furrowed, Seifer tries to think back. “I guess I remember something like that, but what did that matter?”

“By your description, I realized that those small d’s were actually looped L’s, followed by a mess of other letters.”

Seifer’s frown fades as he slowly realizes how I could possibly know what the signature may have looked like. “No… it couldn’t have been… your dad’s?” When I nod once in reply, Seifer stammers, “But… but _why?_ Why in the world would Roth have that?”

“It was stupid chance,” Ward decides to contribute, his thick fingers rubbing the part of his scar that cuts into his forehead. “Laguna liked to work the school zone where Raine was a teacher. It was his excuse to see her during breaks. We think Roth was observing the area when Laguna caught him speeding. According to Raine, Roth would mock Laguna for being unable to see the monster sitting right under his nose.”

Stricken, Seifer stares at me as if searching for the right words to say. I know from our meeting in the past that Seifer had seen the seemingly innocuous speeding ticket during his dreams, one of which happening days before my mother was taken. What Seifer forgets, however, is that he had no reason to know the identity of the kidnapped woman until seeing her face on the subsequent television coverage. It’s easy to look at the past and think of all of the things that could have been done differently, but that doesn’t change what was possible when living through that moment in time.

Not waiting for Seifer to come up with another apology, I finish my account. “It took most of the night, but I found my father’s ticket book and Roth signature. I showed the ticket to Cid, told him about Seifer’s dreams without revealing Seifer’s name, and asked to have Roth’s place monitored for twenty-four hours. Cid humored me.”

Ward breathes a heavy laugh. “Cid… He always had a soft heart for a good story.”

I shrug, not knowing much about the police captain except that he never forgives a favor. Never.

The brief silence that follows is broken when Ward pushes up from the couch and groans from the effort. “I think I’ve had enough for one night. There’s only so much that an old dog like me can handle without time to think things through.” Pale eyes hardening, Ward points a finger at Seifer. “I don’t know what do about you yet, but until I figure it out, you should come down with the stay-away flu. Got it?”

Seifer scowls at the suggestion, but he surprises me by not starting into the obvious argument in front of him. Instead, he takes several steps back to the front door and opens it wide. “Call when you’re ready to admit that you’re wrong about me.”

Ward’s eyes narrow at the dismissal, but it doesn’t last when he sighs with uncertainty and maintains, “Hn, but there were a couple things I got right.” At my curious glance, Ward wraps a heavy arm around my shoulders, and after the lingering hug, he lifts a hand to ruffle my hair. “Be careful with this latest mistake of yours. He may make you believe in a future that doesn’t exist.”

It’s a good guess by the former police officer, but even when I have voiced my own doubts about Seifer’s optimistic descriptions of the future, I find that I don’t have a promise for Ward. The older man must notice something in my expression since his lips curl into a weak smile that I’ve seen him direct at my father during one of the man’s more hopeless rants. After a final pat to my back, Ward leaves my home more quietly than when he came, although he isn’t the least bit subtle when bumping against Seifer on the way out.

Seifer growls when shutting the door and snapping the lock closed. “Seriously, what do I have to do to prove myself to that ass? Make a team of ghosts perform ‘A Christmas Story’ for him? How about a song and dance number?”

A small laugh escapes me at his dramatics, and I inadvertently grab Seifer’s full attention with the noise.

“You find that amusing, huh?” he asks while crossing the room. “Do you realize that he could probably kill me and get away with it?”

“I wouldn’t let him.”

Green eyes flash with interest at my pledge, but that fades a bit too quickly when he stands directly in front of me. “It’s still hard to believe how, out of everything I told you, it came down to a damned speeding ticket. Thinking about it now, the only reason I noticed the thing was because your mom would focus on it. In an odd way, maybe it brought her some extra strength to see something from your dad.”

“She said it did,” I confirm, but when Seifer seems to dwell on his failure, I decide that enough is enough. Turning sharply, I move to open the bottom drawer of my desk and shuffle through a collection of Moleskine notepads until finding the one I want. Without warning, I toss the dark notepad at Seifer, the blond fumbling with it in his surprise. “Start on page twenty-nine.”

Seifer eyes me for the cryptic demand, but he opens the notepad without asking for something more. His annoyance gradually changes to surprise when he reads what is there. “This is… You took down everything I said?” he asks, his gaze briefly looking at me.

“That speeding ticket could have easily been a dead-end if my father hadn’t left his pad at home. If necessary, I was prepared to follow every one of your leads to the very end.”

“Shit, you even made little notes about how I was acting. I’ve got to say, with the way I was fidgeting, I’m surprised that you didn’t think I was suffering from hallucinations caused by drug withdrawal or something else that could explain my dreams.” Flipping a little faster through the pages of material, Seifer comments, “Still, it’s amazing how it only took that one speeding ticket to bring the fucker down. I mean, what if he had used a fake name or somehow tricked your dad? You could have lost your chance with that police captain.”

I lean back against my desk and wait for Seifer to be satisfied with the proof that I had heard his every word back then. I thought it would only take a few pages, but he continues to look over each page, and knowing his moronic ways, he’s probably in search of accidental notes that reference my feelings for him back then. I’m hardly that careless, and Seifer is going to be disappointed if he expects to find a doodle of our initials encircled by a heart. That musing, however, is cut short when Seifer stops on a page and his previous good humor disappears.

“… You went there,” Seifer says with certainty as he stares at the roughly drawn map of Roth’s house and yard, including the shed that had immediately attracted my eye.

“I had to be certain it was him,” I say in defense of my choice, “and so you know, I only looked from a distance.”

Seifer lifts an eyebrow in disbelief, perhaps knowing me a bit too well.

“I wasn’t going to risk my mother’s life by walking onto that man’s property, but… I saw him.” When I recall the swell of emotions I felt when I first laid eyes on Roth, I pause to calm myself before continuing, “He was exactly as you described with his tall and lean frame, his pale hair, and even his long black jacket with the loose belt. It hurt to see him right _there,_ and I regretted my decision to not take one of my father’s guns. It almost didn’t matter that I was weaponless… But I knew that if I was injured or killed, no one else would be able to find my mother in time. I left immed—“

In a near-tackle, Seifer wraps his arms around me and clutches hard onto the back of my shirt, causing at least one new tear in the thin material. My initial shock gradually fades into confusion as Seifer clings onto me without explaining his overreaction. Given no other option, I don’t try to escape his hold and simply wait for the man to calm down.

In a slow, barely controlled voice, Seifer says, “I didn’t tell you about my dreams so that you could get yourself killed.”

“I was careful.”

“Your definition of ‘careful’ scares the fuck out of me.”

I sigh at his exaggeration. “He never saw me.”

“No, you can’t know that, Sherlock. Something about your mother made Roth obsessed with her, and God knows if you have that same trait. He could’ve taken you and done things that…” His hold tightening, Seifer finishes, “I would’ve seen him torturing you to a slow death, and the thought makes me want to puke.”

When Seifer swallows thickly, I decide to err on the side of caution and assume that the blond is being literal with his comment. I try to pull back in a subtle move, but instead of the resistance I anticipate, Seifer abruptly drops his arms to release me from his bear hug. Not expecting that freedom, I bump against my desk and knock over a mug that had been left behind when Seifer lured me to bed. The sound of breaking ceramic against hardwood and the splash of old coffee makes me wince and look over my shoulder, but Seifer immediately grabs my chin to bring my gaze back to his face.

“Given our track records, one of us is eventually going to do something stupid that’ll get someone killed. Do really think I’m an idiot for wanting you to believe me before that happens?”

I scoff at the question. “I think you’re an idiot who is too focused on the idea of us living short lives.”

Pale lips twitch into an almost smile. “Point taken, but with everything I’ve seen, it’s hard to view the world in a kinder light. And Hell, it’s not like I’m that excited about living the next fifty or sixty years like I’ve lived the last five or so. My only relief has been these last few weeks with you.”

With a step back, I pull free of his hand and put some distance between us before focusing on his desperate gaze, silently telling Seifer that he doesn’t want to go down this path.

Seifer eyes the formed space, but instead of anger, he breathes a laugh while raking a hand back through golden hair. “You know, I’m not as blind as you think I am. I know what’s happening here.”

I cross my arms over my chest in a declaration that nothing is “happening” here.

With a rebellious look at my continued denial, Seifer starts, “When I was kid, I would beg my mom to take me to some traveling carnival that used to come in the fall. Every year, she’d make up one excuse or another, and it wasn’t always an excuse. I was too young to notice, but I’m pretty certain she had my same issues with keeping a job, which means money was probably tight. It helped to live with my grandparents, but well…”

“Can you just get to the point, Seifer?”

“Let me get there,” he says with a wave of his hand. “After a few years, she suddenly agreed to take me. I almost didn’t believe her, especially when she said I had to finish my homework first, but we were there before lunch and didn’t leave until nightfall. She didn’t skimp on anything, either: cotton candy, hot dogs, and at least two rounds on any ride that I was tall enough to get on. I thought I was pushing things to point out a toy that had caught my eye, but my mom promised to win it for me. I’m certain that the game was rigged, but she still managed to get it with her second try.”

I frown at the familiar story. “That was your stuffed dragon.”

“You got it in one, Sherlock,” Seifer says with a weak smile. “She said that Dog was my early birthday present and that I should take good care of him. I had no clue back then, but by the time I was in middle school, I figured out that my mom must have known that she was going to die months before my birthday.”

Uncomfortable with the topic, I ask the blond, “What does this have to do with anything?”

Green eyes focus on me with an accusatory gleam that suggests I should know exactly where he’s going with his little tale. “That was probably the best fucking day in my life. I was a kid, so I didn’t even question what it might mean to have something I’ve always wanted dropped into my lap. And because I trusted my mom, I was able to enjoy every single minute with her. Maybe I should hate her for abusing my desire to go to that carnival as her goodbye to me, but I don’t. When things get a little too hard, I still think back to that day and I remember how she laughed and smiled while winning me a stupid purple dragon. She was beautiful, and I wouldn’t trade that day for anything.”

I know what he’s trying to tell me, but it’s not something I can accept so easily. “You had one good day in exchange for losing your mother. I wouldn’t call that a good deal.”

“Even if I was going to lose her anyway?”

“... …”

Stepping forward, Seifer places a warm hand at my cheek. “I know you’re afraid, Squall. You’re the type to think things through to every possible conclusion, and I know there are far more chances of us not working out compared to a happy ending, but…” Rubbing a thumb along the edge of white gauze, Seifer continues his thought, “You once believed me without an ounce of evidence to back up my word, and then used that trust to find your proof that I was telling the truth. Why can’t you give me one more chance like that?”

I stare at his face, his annoyingly handsome face that I had pushed out of my mind during the years since high school, and I can’t find a clear thought. Only Seifer has this effect on me, and I know that should mean something. All of my arguments and opposition seem pointless when Seifer is this close and asking for something as simple as the benefit of the doubt.

Sensing my weakness, Seifer smirks when he adds, “One more chance, Squall, and I swear that you’ll find the proof that you’re looking for.”

I shouldn’t believe him, especially when he has the look of someone who thinks he has already won, but with his rough hand against my cheek and his eyes focused on only me, I’m exhausted by my own stubbornness. In the last several days, Seifer has told me things no one else knows, he drew upon the power he hates to save my life, and he revealed himself to my father and godfathers for the freedom to stay with me. Anyone else would have taken such events as a statement of devotion, but I chose to be resistant to that obvious truth.

And for what? What do I have to gain by fighting Seifer when I could have him instead? Yes, it might not last long, maybe not even the length of a day, but as Seifer has already suggested, it could very well be the best day in my life.

Green eyes brighten as Seifer watches me, but before he can make a stupid comment that could change my mind, I press my mouth against his and slide my tongue along his smirking lips. Seifer doesn’t hesitate with his response to deepen the kiss, and unlike the times before, I actually pay attention to his maneuverings that draw me in closer. There is no reservation when his tongue strokes against mine, there is no uncertainty when his hand caresses my throat and unavoidably my Adam’s apple, and there is no subtly when his other hand squeezes my ass. With his unending boldness, I’m not quite certain how I was able to see his desire as anything else.

Not to be outdone, I drag my fingernails down the old sleeping shirt covering his chest, and needing to touch skin, I slip my hand under the thin cotton to reach the waistline of his boxers. I barely breach perilous territory when a strong hand latches onto my wrist and prevents me from fulfilling a few old fantasies of mine. Pulling back from our kiss, albeit without any cooperation from Seifer, I stare at the blond and silently question the reason for his interference.

After showing a pained look, Seifer rests his head at my shoulder. “Don’t take this the wrong way, because I would love to take this further, but I just spent an hour telling your overly protective uncles about how a very sadistic man tortured your mother. I don’t want to get you exactly where I want you and have some random flashback ruin everything.”

Not considering how Seifer would have been affected by the retelling of what he saw, I feel a strange mix of defeat and respect at Seifer’s decision to tame this fire between us. It’s the right decision, but I’m not accustomed to Seifer being the rational one and I have the immediate instinct to fight against his untimely logic.

In an attempt to further placate me, Seifer kisses the side of my neck. “Our first time needs to be everything we have dreamed about and not stained by that fucker’s plague of an existence.”

“Is that a promise?” I ask, my voice sounding loss of breath when Seifer stumbles upon a healing bruise.

“A promise and more,” he pledges before grazing his teeth against that sensitive spot.

A groan slips free from my lips, and I can’t be certain if it’s in reaction to his words or touch, or maybe a bit of both. As I thread my fingers into bed-messed golden hair, my lips lift into an almost smile when I realize that this stray wolf has finally gone for my throat, but not in the way I assumed he would. Instead, I feel Seifer putting his mark on me in a spot for anyone to see, and I surprisingly have no urge to deny him that claim.

When Seifer finishes his task and laps a tongue along sore skin, I ask dutifully, “Are you satisfied?”

He chuckles, his warm breath felt against my neck. “For you to ask a question like that, you obviously don’t know me as well as you think.”

“Or I know you far too well,” I argue before I lift a hand and press my fingers against his forehead to push the blond aside. “If we’re not doing anything, I would rather go back to bed.”

“How cold,” Seifer complains while I make my escape. “After all of that, you just want to fall asleep?”

I glance over the blond and casually take in the sight of solid legs covered in light-colored hair, the noticeable lump beneath his boxers, and the lift of his chest that Seifer does whenever he knows someone is admiring him. He’s a cock in more than one meaning of the word, and it’s strange to know that my examination is the cause of his instinctual need to impress.

“Sleep is the safest option,” I comment before I turn my back to him and walk toward the open bedroom door.

One foot over the threshold, however, strong arms predictably wrap around my chest. Before I can comment on his stupidity, Seifer rests his chin against my shoulder and leans his head against mine. “I know that I’ve already asked a lot of you, but when morning comes, do me one more favor and don’t change your mind about us until I have a real chance to prove something to you.”

A bitter laugh almost escapes me at the plea. “Would that really stop you?”

“Doubtful,” Seifer admits with a smile to his voice, “but this is a lot easier when you go along with it.”

Rough fingers slide under my chin and force me into an angle that is uncomfortable and awkward when Seifer draws me into another kiss. It’s a clumsy attempt, but that doesn’t seem to matter when Seifer is the one leading the brief joining that ends with our faces very close and our eyes meeting in a quiet moment. Gazing into clear green, I realize that the man has done it one more time, luring me into believing him when I have no good reason to do so. And when he smiles softly and presses his lips against the gauze between my eyes, I know that I’m trouble with Seifer like no other man before him.


	8. Chapter 8

[Seifer]

_Snowflakes drift down from the sky._

_They are my favorite kind of snowflakes: puffy and large, lazily floating like frozen feathers from dark clouds. I feel their icy caresses when they brush against my face, a friendly touch that brings a smile, a slight one, to my lips._

_Entranced by the falling snow, it takes a while before I gradually realize that something isn’t quite right. I’m not cold and I can’t seem to look away from the dance of white ice, but even if those facts strongly suggest that this is another one of my many dreams, I know that it isn’t. This isn’t the shell of a stranger, but my own body standing in a place that I don’t know, not that it seems to matter. There isn’t the typical suffocating air of urgency about this dream, just an odd sense of peace. Peace and snowflakes._

_Still, something isn’t quite right._

_Squinting, I look more closely at the falling bits of ice and recognize that they aren’t the perfect white I had thought, but softly tainted by a reddish hue that, while faint in color, immediately makes me think of blood. Blood shouldn’t be on snowflakes, not ones freshly falling from the sky… but who am I to dictate what is allowed in a dream?_

_A hand rests on my shoulder and words are spoken, but I can’t understand what the person is asking me. The voice, however, makes my smile widen as I think about my no longer mysterious lover and the feel of his strong hand. Then, without warning, the snowflakes are suddenly falling up, promptly swallowed into a darkness that should make me afraid of ghosts and demons, but for once in my meager life, I’m not afraid. Not of the pitch black void, not of the sound of nothingness, I’m not…_

~ > < ~

“You’re not what?”

Blinking slowly at the clear and understandable voice, it takes a moment before I can focus my eyes and realize that the darkness in front of me has nothing to do with my dream. Instead, I’m too close to the body held tightly within my arms, and leaning back, I gaze up into the vaguely amused expression of Squall Loire.

Lightly rumpled from a night of sleep, Squall is a beautiful sight with his dark hair falling forward as he looks down at me. His blue-gray eyes shine with interest, his full lips quirk into a secretive smile, and I can’t help moving a hand under his shirt to make certain his flesh is warm and living to my touch. As of last night, I would have bet good money on the chance of Squall leaving me alone by morning, but here he is, comfortably trapped within my arms. A beautiful sight, indeed.

“Did you dream of something?” Squall prods when I don’t answer.

Snowflakes and stains of blood flash through my memory before I answer with a sleepy smile, “Nothing useful or life-threatening, if that’s what you’re asking.”

His expression quiet and unreadable, Squall lifts a hand to brush something from the corner of my eye. “Don’t ever lie to me about your dreams, Seifer.”

“Do you think I’m lying to you right now?”

“Not this time, but you’ve tried to mislead me in the past,” Squall says. “Consider it a warning for the future.”

After a wasted moment of blatant staring, I push up from the mattress and move onto my knees to lean over the smaller man. “That’s an interesting warning after last night. May I ask what kind of future we’re talking about here?”

Meeting my eager gaze, Squall hesitates in brief thought. “You talked about one amazing day rising above everything else… Let me have that day before tomorrow brings whatever it brings.”

I smile at the answer that is far more than I expected from the cautious man, and with his implied permission, I bend down to make my claim on the full lips that are mine for the length of today. Squall leans into the kiss, only the smallest hint of resistance remaining within the stormy-eyed beauty. His lips move softly but purposefully against mine, taunting me with a kiss that never deepens as his tongue and teeth toy with my lips. For a fleeting second, I think to complain about his prudish treatment, but Squall efficiently distracts me with his seductive lips and a cold hand massaging my neck.

Before I realize that I’ve lost control, Squall slides his free hand down my shirt-covered chest and, in an unexpectedly cruel move, digs his fingers into the exact spot where Ward had assaulted me last night. I flinch back at the abuse, and in my moment of weakness, Squall shoves his other hand against my collarbone to knock me completely off balance. I land on my back in awkward pose that puts me only an inch from the edge of the mattress.

“Fucking hell, that _hurt_. If you didn’t want the kiss—“

My complaint is cut short when Squall straddles my thighs, his eyes intense with barely restrained passion. It’s almost too much to meet his gaze while knowing about the years that have led to this point in time, but I can’t make myself look anywhere else. Lifting my hand, I brush aside the bangs of dark chestnut that hang over his face, subjecting myself to the full force of his storm-colored eyes.

“What do you want, Squall?” I ask in a voice that is soft with promise.

Dark eyebrows slowly furrow into the bandage still covering his stitched skin, the man’s expression not the look of someone who is about to fulfill a fantasy he has nurtured since he was a prepubescent teenager.

“Something wrong?”

“… What am I doing?” Squall asks in a near whisper.

“Well, I was of the assumption that you were about to show me what I’ve been missing all of my life.”

Squall shows me a familiar scowl, clearly not in the mood for my cliché sense of romance. “I have a stack of files to research and people to contact, but I sat here and watched you all morning.” With an accusatory glare in my direction, he adds, “This isn’t like me.”

My lips curl into an inevitable smirk, even though I know it won’t help my cause. “Do I need to remind you that you were researching until late last night? And before our little nap yesterday, you were awake for two days straight? Don’t tell me that you don’t deserve a moment or two of peace.”

Something in his eyes tells me that, no, he doesn’t think he deserves anything until this case is solved and everyone is safe from the whims of a serial killer.

“Hey, I understand where you’re coming from, Sherlock, but if you ask me, there’s nothing you need to do at this exact moment. You already arranged meetings with the parents of those kids for later today, and I’ve watched you review those files forward and backwards. The thing is, if you keep going over old ground like that, you’re eventually going to get stuck on the wrong answers.”

Squall scoffs at my biased logic. “And having sex with you will prevent that?”

My dick twitches at the suggestion, something Squall feels judging by the shift of his gaze. “Shit, I don’t know if it’d help, but it damn well can’t hurt. I mean, I highly doubt the good men and women of the Garden police force are celibate creatures, and they have hundreds of cases on their plates at any one time. We’re all human, Squall, even if you refuse to accept it.”

His eyes narrowing, Squall focuses on me for a long moment before asking, “Have you always been the type to give speeches?”

Realizing that I’ve been full of speeches lately, I chuckle and muse, “I guess it’s an old quarterback habit to give the game-winning talk, especially when it looks like the team is about to suffer a big loss.”

“A big loss, huh?” Squall murmurs as his eyes shift in thought.

“A tragic one,” I maintain. Lowering my hand from his hair, I follow his jawline with my fingers until I go lower to the claim I had made at his throat last night, my touch against bruised flesh bringing a shiver to pale skin. “How about we try this again and you tell me what you want.”

His gaze is quiet for what feels like a moment too long, and when Squall finally does move, he leans away from me into a stiff pose. Disappointed but not surprised, I let my arm fall to the mattress and patiently wait for his simply worded rejection. Squall’s voice doesn’t sound, however, and just before I think to question him, I’m startled by his chilled hands slipping under my shirt.

With his infinite patience, Squall gradually lifts the cotton material to my chest and watches every inch of my exposed flesh as his hands barely touch my skin. Unable to keep motionless under that scrutiny, I curse within a growl before grabbing my shirt to fully remove the barrier, my hasty action bringing a humored smile to full lips. With thoughts of kissing away his silent laugh, I try to place a hand at Squall’s neck to pull him closer, but he pulls my arm aside before he leans back over me.

A shaky breath leaves me when his heavy necklace touches my bare skin, the lion pendant cold and perfect compared to the hazier version in my dream. The thick chain pools on my chest as Squall bends down to drag the tip of his tongue along my collarbone, his attack precisely focused on the curve caused by a bad break in high school. While Squall’s mouth lingers on that part of my body, his deft fingers slowly trail from my shoulders and down along the outer lines of my chest, his examination a familiar and enticing one. His thumbs eventually brush against my nipples in a frustratingly light touch, pulling a needy groan from my lips.

Wanting more contact, I place my hands at his waist and try to encourage Squall into lowering from his knees, but the attempt backfires when Squall pushes away to sit on my thighs. Although his gaze has a scolding hint, Squall keeps his hands on my body and meticulously follows the lines of my ribs before reaching the bruise at my stomach, the area colored with a mix of angry red and deep purple. The very tips of his fingers trace the shape of the bruise, the imprint of Ward’s knuckles almost discernible within the shades of ugly color.

When his lips tighten in displeasure, I try to assure, “If you think this is bad, you should have seen me after a football game.”

Blue-gray eyes, sharp and brutal, lift to meet my gaze. “I don’t think you would have liked me looking at your body back then.”

“I think you’re focused on the wrong problem, Sherlock,” I counter as I lower a hand from his waist and press the heel of my palm against his crotch. “If you had looked at my body like you’re doing right now, there’s no way I could have ignored my attraction to another man.”

Instead of jerking away from my touch like the last time, Squall rolls his hips to rub against my hand. “And you wouldn’t have blamed me for seducing and corrupting you?”

“Maybe, but at this moment, I feel like blaming you for failing to seduce me long before this,” I say as I stretch out my fingers to reach his balls.

Squall’s lips part in a silent moan, making me want to do a lot more to the strong-willed man, but Squall takes that option away from me when he gracefully retreats. Not giving me room to argue, Squall pulls at the waistline to my boxers and reveals my own interest in our unexpected activities for this morning. His hand slips under my stiffened cock, his cool skin soothing in the moment before he causes even more heat by dragging his tongue along the side of my dick.

Bracing myself on one elbow to watch the show, I reach out to thread my fingers through thick chestnut and smile encouragingly when blue-gray eyes glance up at the touch. Squall huffs at my offered support, and in a decisive move, he wraps his lips around the reddened head of my erection. I groan when he goes deeper and gently grazes his teeth at the ridge leading to the shaft. Pausing there, Squall curls his tongue up against the tight bundle of nerves sitting exposed for his whims, and after a few strong strokes of his tongue, he pulls back to repeat the steps and go deeper each time.

My breaths shortened, I try to calm my body from the overwhelming sensations caused by the living version of my longtime lover, but then Squall has to make things difficult by slipping a hand to the very base of my dick to massage that area in the same rhythm as his mouth. The knuckle of a bent finger rubs against my sac, and while it seems accidental, the exact placement of that knuckle reminds me that Squall rarely acts without thorough consideration and precise intent.

When Squall does something seemingly impossible with his tongue, I have the abrupt realization that it has been maybe a year since my last blow job, even longer since a good one. In hindsight, it was apparent that I never stood a chance against Squall’s practiced technique, and I can only hope that Squall has already reached that same conclusion. Unable to give fair warning, I come into Squall’s mouth with my hand clutching hard onto strands of dark brown hair and an apology caught in my throat.

Squall takes it all in stride, and after a thick swallow, he laps up the remaining mess with a heavy tongue and a dutiful air.

“Fucking shit, that was pathetic…” I say while getting my breathing under control. “Before you judge me, I swear I usually have more stamina than that.”

With a sly glance, Squall asks, “What, you aren’t going to say that my mouth was better than your dreams?”

After a moment of surprise, a laugh leaves me at the question that seems to be both mocking and honest in its intent. “And what about you? Are you finally going to believe me when I say that I’ve seen us together just like this and that I’m tired of our relationship only existing in my dreams?”

Blue-gray eyes shift in silent thought while his eyebrows lower into a vexed expression that reminds me of so many years ago. Back then, I didn’t know why Squall decided to believe in me and my shaky visions, and now I’m taunted by the answer that eluded me for over a decade. He may have believed me once due to his love, but apparently that same love isn’t enough to trust me a second time.

Holding back my frustration, I pull on the front of Squall’s shirt to drag him within range for me to press a kiss to a furrowed eyebrow. I place a second kiss at the side of his nose, the edge of gauze brushing against my lips before I move to his flushed cheek. When I move farther down to full lips, however, Squall retreats a mere centimeter away and stays out of reach when I try to nudge closer.

“We’re not going to have sex,” Squall announces, his voice hoarse but firm.

“We’re not?” I ask, more than a little confused. When Squall simply hums in confirmation, I prod further, “Then why take time with the foreplay when there’s no main event?”

“You asked me what I wanted,” Squall reminds me. “I’ve wanted to taste you for years, and now…”

“…And now?”

With a cold and beautiful smile, Squall replies, “I want to watch you destroy Roth.”

His low voice radiates with violent intent, leaving me aroused and half naked on his bed when Squall slips off the mattress and moves for his bathroom. Disappointed, I flop back onto the bed and watch Squall’s swaying ass in the moment before the bathroom door closes between us… but not all of the way. Immediately interested, I move onto my side and stare at the cracked opening that isn’t more than an inch wide. I mentally struggle with the sight, wondering if it’s an invitation, an unwanted mistake, or simply a door that didn’t close all of the way.

Then, in my moment of indecision, I see a sliver of Squall’s unclothed body hovering beyond that barrier, hesitating for a fraction of a second before the door is gently pushed closed with a soft click of the latch.

Muttering out a curse, I immediately realize that I had missed the subtle invitation from my cautious lover because I doubted his offer for what it was. Frustrated, I grab my discarded clothes and slide off the bed with the basic plan of moving into my own shower and handling my teased cock by my lonesome. Before that, however, I glance over my shoulder at the closed door and pledge under my breath, “That’s not a mistake I’ll make a second time, Squally-boy, so don’t give up on me.”

==========================================================================

Squall sits in a stiff pose on the edge of an ancient loveseat, his dark leather pants clashing noticeably against the garish floral pattern. In his lap is a heavy mug of coffee, the brunet wiser than me when it comes to not drinking heated liquid just before learning something unexpected. As I stifle my coughs from coffee going down the wrong pipe, Squall speaks out with obvious disbelief toward the given information.

“You said Zack joined the Army?”

“That he did,” Asella Fair replies with a proud smile unique to mothers.

While Squall processes the new information, I focus on the woman sitting across from us. Asella welcomed us into her home with the understanding that we needed help to locate the man who drove Nida to suicide. She has been a proper hostess from the start with the immediate offer of coffee, a courtesy that is complemented by her soft southern accent. Her purple jumpsuit begs for a fashion intervention, but being a woman in her early fifties, Asella looks strong and vibrant and able to smack anyone who may point out that purple really isn’t her color.

Her quirks aside, though, what bothers me about the woman is that she doesn’t seem to be worried about her son, but instead seems to believe that Zack is alive and well while training to become a professional killer, perhaps a promotion from being a recreational one. She may not have any reason to suspect her son of terrible crimes, but if I had almost lost a child to a sadistic killer, I would be more concerned whenever that same child, no matter his age, suddenly disappeared a second time in his life. Her cheerfully naive attitude is more than a little grating.

“I’m sorry,” I interject with as little skepticism as I can manage, “but didn’t you report him missing several months ago?”

“We did, but that was before we received his letter,” Asella says after a sip of her milk-lightened coffee. “I tried to tell the police that he’s fine, but they seem a little stubborn about wanting to talk to him in person. Say, Jed, why don’t you get that letter for these boys?”

Jedediah Fair nods and pushes up from his recliner of cracked leather, a stark contrast to Asella’s flower-bedecked sofa chair. “Maybe they can convince them to stop harassing us about our boy. Zack wants to reach the top of his class; he doesn’t have time for this nonsense,” he grumbles while moving with a slight limp toward the fireplace mantle. Compared to his wife, Jed looks more worn down by age, but he admirably tries to hide those aches and pains.

Jed takes a small white envelope from its resting spot against a propped frame with a picture of a young boy with deep blue eyes, shaggy black hair, and an honest smile that probably won the hearts of his teachers through the years. He’s the same boy I’ve seen naked and chained to a workbench, and as I stare at that innocent photo, my stomach churns at the memory of Zack sitting with a straight back and tear tracks staining his cheeks. While his two classmates were sobbing and whimpering wrecks, Zack was too stubborn for a nine-year-old and he often told the others to not give Roth the satisfaction. “He’s just a bully,” was a common phrase by the boy.

But more than that, I remember when Raine’s eyes would meet Zack’s and how his deep blue eyes would harden in a determined expression, as if Zack was trying to mentally lend all of his strength to Raine. I got the feeling that he was the only one who believed they were going to make it out of that situation alive, and now here I am, thinking how that same kid might be killing innocent boys. I’m a little disgusted with myself, but I learned a long time ago that even good, generally honest people can commit ugly crimes.

An elbow presses against my side, making me jump as I discover that I’ve been staring a bit too hard at the school photo when, apparently, Asella had started talking again.

“… and he mentioned bringing a special girl to dinner, although that didn’t happen before he left. Our Zack doesn’t like to show it, but he has a shy side, and I think he wanted this girl to see how brave he is,” Asella says while Jed hands the letter to Squall.

With a careful touch, Squall opens the unsealed envelope and pulls out the folded piece of paper. I glance over his shoulder to read the letter that is surprisingly brief:

_Hey Mom and Dad—_

_I heard that you’ve been worried about me. Sorry for not telling you, but I decided to enlist like I always said I would. They say I have the potential to join one of the special ops teams, but I have to work hard, which means I won’t see you for a long time. Next time you hear from me, I’ll be a first-class soldier!_

_Zack_

I slump back into my seat, relieved to know that the kid somehow escaped the fate of his former classmates. Maybe his skull is too thick to hear the whispers of the dead or maybe Roth had no interest in the cockier youth, but whatever the case, I was wrong about the kid and that doesn’t bother me one bit.

Squall pulls a small camera from his pocket and asks, “May I take a picture?”

“Of course,” Asella insists. “Maybe if you show it to the police, they’ll understand how we were premature to make that missing person’s report.”

After a few clicks from his camera, Squall lifts his gaze to comment, “There isn’t a stamp on the envelope.”

“Oh, that little friend of his… What did Zack call him?”

“Cloud,” Jedediah prompts.

“Ah yes, Cloud. He came around several months ago with that letter, saying that Zack sent him a handful to give out. Knowing our Zack, though, he probably wanted that boy to check up on us and report back to him.”

Squall nods in understanding while refolding the letter and placing it back into its envelope. He stands up and steps over to the fireplace, placing the letter against the framed photo of the younger Zack. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. and Mr. Fair,” Squall says dully, his mind probably elsewhere. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

With Squall halfway to the front door, I sigh at his lack of manners. It’s a damn good thing Squall is a magician at what he does, because there’s no way he’d win over clients with his blunt personality.   “What he meant to say is that you’ve been very helpful. We’ll keep in contact about whatever we discover, and you can pass that along to Zack. I’m certain he would like to know.”

Asella smiles warmly at the promise. “He would, thank you.”

“Squall gave you his card. If you think of anything else, please call. Oh, and the coffee was great,” I add, stealing a last gulp before standing up.

“Come back anytime,” Asella offers.

Flashing a patented smile, I nod my head in thanks before walking to the front door.                             

Once outside, I pause when I see that Squall didn’t bother to claim the driver seat of his mother’s jeep as he had this morning, the man instead brooding on the passenger side. Slumped in his seat, he looks a bit too much like a teenager waiting impatiently to go home after being forced to endure a torturous day with the parents. It’s adorable, and me thinking so is probably a good sign that I’m a hopeless cause when it comes to the dark-haired man.

A small smile stuck on my face, I walk to the waiting jeep and slip into the driver’s side without saying anything to disturb Squall. In that silence, I take in the sight of his cheeks slightly blushed from the cold, the tips of his eyelashes golden in muted sunlight, and his full lips faintly pouted in thought. Squall is a beautiful man, no doubt about it, but that isn’t the lure that finally caught my attention. No, my downfall lies in the hands of his unbelievable strength, both in the physical sense and in his single-minded way of helping strangers and family alike.

It’s somewhat ironic how the strength I respect so much is the final, wavering barrier between us.

My eyes slip down to the deep red mark that stands out against pale skin, and I hold back the instinct to touch my claim on the elusive man. This morning was a very welcomed surprise, but oddly enough, I don’t feel satisfied by the unexpected tryst. I’ve had many so-called relationships end the moment after a blow jobs, and even more end after a night of fucking, which makes this current void new and unsettling for me.

While I have been trying to convince Squall that I’m serious about us and that I’m not using him to test different waters, I didn’t recognize the full truth of my pledge until today. Unless I have Squall in every meaning of the word, I have a bad feeling that I won’t be satisfied with anything less. It doesn’t help that I have a shitty record when it comes to being a patient man. I could ruin everything in a matter of seconds if I’m not careful, and yet this is the first thing in years that I have wanted so badly…

“Well, it looks like I was wrong,” I say in an attempt to distract myself. The last thing I need is to blurt out a premature marriage proposal while we’re hunting down a serial killer.

Blue-gray eyes narrow when Squall finally acknowledges my presence. “Wrong about what?”

“About the Fair kid. It sounds like he’s busy being a soldier and doesn’t have the time to piss, let alone kill babies.”

With a lifted eyebrow, Squall contends, “It was just words on paper, Seifer. Even if Zack had written that letter, it wouldn’t have proven anything.”

I stare at the dark-haired man. “What do you mean ‘even if he had written it’?”

“There were hesitation marks throughout that note and there weren’t any declarations of love or gratefulness to his parents. That letter wasn’t written by an apologetic son who won’t return home for an unknown amount of time.”

Overwhelmed by Squall’s observation, I lift a hand to cover my eyes and clench my teeth in frustration at being swayed by something as basic as a handwritten note. That letter could have been written by anyone and for any number of reasons: by Zack’s father in an attempt to console his wife, by someone who doesn’t want people to discover that Zack is dead, or even by Zack himself to throw the police off his trail. I should have been skeptical from the first mention of a letter, but instead, I took comfort in the fantasy that Zack was okay and out of harm’s way. Stupid, so fucking stupid…

“It’s understandable for you to want to believe in that letter,” Squall comments, and it almost doesn’t sound like pity.

“It was a pretty little lie, and I fell for it. The dumbass thing is that I know better than to trust things that sound too good to be true, because they’re usually just that—too good to be remotely true, and then someone gets hurt in the end.”

“Is that so?” Squall asks with a sidelong glance that can only be described as shrewd.

“Don’t even go there, Sherlock,” I growl in return. “Me wanting to be with you isn’t a ‘too good to be true’ situation. If anything, I’d call it a ‘damn it, why didn’t I notice things earlier’ fuck up.”

Blue-gray eyes focus on me, and not with the distrust that has been common as of late, but with a more attentive gleam as he finally treats my words with some credibility.

“I do want you, Squall, and I’ll keep saying it until you believe me.”

His gaze closing off just slightly, Squall comments, “This isn’t the time or place.”

“Of course not,” I agree with a smile that doesn’t last long. “Well, obviously Zack’s parents don’t know anything. What’s the next step?”

“What do you think?”

Considering what we learned from the parents, I realize that there’s only one obvious step. “You want to go after the messenger, that Cloud kid.”

Squall nods and points to the key already sitting in the ignition. “Let’s go.”

“Go where, exactly? Do you know where to find him?” Before Squall needs to answer, I realize, “Oh wait a minute, didn’t that munchkin mention how Cloud once lived in his same house? And let me guess, since I was the one driving last night, you were too distracted to notice where the munchkin lives when we took him home.”

“Just drive, Seifer,” Squall grumbles while purposefully moving his gaze to look out the side window.

The drive across town is a long one, especially when a light snow starts to fall and several drivers seem to baulk at the idea of a few snowflakes on the road. Nothing is said between Squall and me during that time, only my voice sounding while I mock the morons who haven’t figured out how to drive in snow when we’re already a couple months into winter. Squall huffs on occasion, a few times in amusement at my words and a few times in annoyance at my driving. The most consistent source of his irritation seems to be whenever I stop for yellow lights, which I find more entertaining than I probably should.

In the last few blocks before our destination, Squall grumbles something under his breath, but I catch enough to be curious.

“And what exactly am I doing on purpose?”

Squall glares at the question, but I’m not the unfortunate focus of his chilled gaze. Instead, he watches the dashboard when declaring, “Only student drivers and people over sixty drive consistently below the speed limit like you do, so stop fucking with me.”

A laugh escapes me at his unexpected critique. “Are you suggesting that I should break the law?”

“You stopped at four yellow lights, ones you would have made if you had gone faster.”

“You know, most other mothers would commend my safe driving.”

His eyes flash with anger at being compared to a mother. “We don’t have time to waste, and you’re making a joke of it.”

“Shit, I didn’t…” All humor lost, I exhale a breath when I realize that Squall has probably been counting every second that could have been used to save Raine. “Listen, I’m not trying to make a joke out of anything. The truth is that I fucked up pretty damn big back in college, and if I get so much as a speeding ticket, they might take away my license.”

Squall doesn’t immediately comment upon my admission, but I can feel it when his pale-eyed gaze shifts to my face. “Are you referring to your DUI?”

My chest constricts at his guess, even when I should know by now that Squall has a way of discovering undesirable truths. “How long have you known about that?”

“I came across it while looking for you. Ward also made certain I was aware of your arrest when it came up during your background check.”

I glance at the brunet, curious what other secrets he knows, but I can only handle one thing at a time. “I was a stupid kid.”

“You could have killed someone,” Squall says, going right for the low blow.

It’s a shame that my first response is to huff out a laugh.

Appalled, Squall demands, “Do you find that funny?”

“No, it’s not funny, not in the least. It’s just that you’re completely right while I...” I hesitate, not wanting to admit my faults to the brunet, but I can’t stop myself either. “Back then, I decided that if I was going to kill someone, I would dream about it beforehand. If there was no dream, then there was no reason to worry about getting behind the wheel of a car while stinking drunk.”

“But didn’t you say you drank to block out your dreams?”

“And thus the flaw in my theory.”

Squall stares at me, his eyes cool and unreadable as he considers the information I have thrown at him. That silence lingers as we reach the narrow street lined with older, rundown houses that could be beautiful if anyone gave a damn. Instead, the neighborhood has a depressing air instilled by immobile cars with missing parts, dead trees sporting only a string or two of Christmas lights, and more than one foreclosure notice visibly adhered to a front door.

I pull the jeep over at the end of the street and switch off the ignition before leaning back in my seat. Squall undoes his seatbelt, but doesn’t get out. Instead, he watches me while waiting for something, and God help me if I know what he needs to hear.

Unable to handle the silence, I dive blindly into the deep. “Do you remember what I asked you after I was evicted? About how I felt like I had taken the wrong step at some point in my life?”

Squall continues to stare, which I decide to take as a “maybe” from the silent man.

“The first time I felt that way, it was when I managed to stay sober for a week. I got a good look at my life and I didn’t know where the hell I was, and I almost mean that literally. Half my stuff was gone, hawked to pawn shops for money and booze. My car had been repossessed when I wasn’t paying attention. Probably the worst of it, though, was that I had been living in filth with old pizza, beer cans, and dried puke everywhere.” Phantom bugs crawl over my skin at the mere thought of that place, goading me into scratching my arm. “That’s when I started to hate what I had become. I decided to get as much distance as I could from that part of my life, but no matter what I did or where I went, it didn’t make a difference. Nothing changed for years…

“And then I bumped into a stalker at my favorite coffee shop and he pushed me forward, helping me to take the steps I was too afraid to take alone,” I sum up, my lips quirking into a smile at the memory of seeing Squall on that horrible day. For a fraction of a second, I thought I was being visited by a ghost of Christmas past, but I quickly came to my senses when hot coffee splashed against my legs for the second time in a handful of minutes. Squall had searched for me when no one else cared, and while I didn’t understand it at first, I’m grateful for his tenacious nature.

The click of an opening door snaps me out of my thoughts, and when I turn, I find Squall with his back to me and one foot out the door.

“You have left the person you were behind,” Squall says in a confident voice, “and it’s for the best that I never met him.”

Stunned, I watch as the dark-haired beauty steps into the winter air and closes the door behind him. There’s a sense of finality to his actions, as if Squall had made decision about me and wasn’t about to be swayed by stories from the past. Frankly, it’s an unbelievable choice from a man who thrives on information and clues to determine his next move. He’s giving me the option to be someone who isn’t chained by an unwanted past, and my heart speeds up as I consider the possibilities. Of course, the future is another problem considering that words only go so far with Squall, but I don’t have to be weighed down anymore. I can learn to take action again, to move forward without tripping backward...

Fortunately for me, Squall is an easy man to follow.

Cold air flows over my flushed skin when I leave the jeep and hurry after the brunet. Squall didn’t go far, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket as he gazes up at the cloud-covered sky. Small snowflakes flit down, easily caught by the slight breeze and Squall’s misty breath. Bits of ice cling to dark hair and glitter in the smothered daylight, enticing me to glide my fingers through the thick locks. Squall surprisingly allows the intimate touch, but shifts his cold gaze to my face in a silent warning that I’m pushing it.

“You were thinking pretty hard there,” I comment. “Is it anything I should be worried about?”

Squall stares at me for a moment longer before glancing to the house. “We’re missing something.”

“Missing something? Like what?”

“I’m not certain…”

“And I’ve heard that tone of voice before, which means you’re toying with a theory.”

Blue-gray eyes shift in quiet thought. “What if we’re following the wrong breadcrumbs?”

“You mean the bright-as-day clues that have led us this far?” I ask in vague disbelief, but when full lips slip into a frown, I realize that he seriously thinks it is a problem. “Okay, I suppose it’s possible for us to be distracted by this stuff when those dead kids are the ones involved, but be honest here, Squall: do you really think we’re off track, or are you bothered by it being too easy to follow these particular breadcrumbs?”

Squall hums in consideration of my question, but doesn’t voice an answer when he steps toward the house Sora currently calls home. Accustomed to his silence, I follow his lead and turn my attention to the building ahead of us.

The two-story house is in decent condition, but no better than the rest of the homes on this street. Stray vines climb along the sides of the building, hiding the chips and cracks of an old paint job. Basic Christmas decorations hang in the front windows including handmade snowflakes, strings of popcorn, and pipe cleaners in the distorted shapes of reindeer and angels. Undisturbed snow covers the yard, however, striking me as strange given the presence of kids. Hell, Sora alone seems the type to play in fresh snow, and he definitely has the charm to drag others into his games.

With every step forward, I recognize that the aura of the house is the same as a person who smiles too much: it seems normal and pleasant at first, but after a while, it becomes obvious that it’s a facade. I’m not certain what the house is trying to hide, but at least it doesn’t feel dangerous. The kids here are safe with a roof over their heads and food in their stomachs, but I get the sense that they’re not loved like children should be, and for all I know, the house could be embarrassed about that fact.

Ice crunches when Squall’s boot lands on the first step of the porch, the sound seeming to serve as a summons since the front door abruptly jerks open to reveal an unanticipated sight. Cheeks flushed, Riku clings onto the doorknob and stares dumbly at Squall as if the dark-haired man was the one to appear without warning. Pale lips part in an expected question, but then close when Riku’s surprise passes and his shock is replaced by a stern look. After a glance over his shoulder, Riku closes the door behind him and motions us to the side of the house.

“I think Sora is in trouble,” Riku says in a rushed breath. “We were supposed to meet hours ago, but he never showed and he’s not here.”

I smile at the teen’s sense of drama. “Are you saying that the munchkin got cold feet before your first big date?”

Sea-green eyes narrow into a harsh glare. “It wasn’t a date, you asshole. Sora called me last night and he was the one who setup the meeting. He wouldn’t have bailed on me without calling or texting or _something_. This isn’t like him.”

“He has a cell phone?” Squall asks, perhaps curious how Sora could afford one.

“Sora gets into enough trouble that I bought a prepaid one and made him promise to always carry it,” Riku says with deep frustration in his voice. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of him, but the phone goes straight to voice mail. Sora never lets his phone die or turn off like that.”

I glance up and focus on a window on the second floor, wondering for a moment if the munchkin had decided to leave this place behind him, but I quickly dismiss that thought. The kid was obviously agitated by the idea of Riku running away, which makes it pretty senseless for Sora to run off himself without any warning to his friend. Maybe something did happen to the kid, but there are usually innocent explanations behind situations that appear worrisome at first glance.

“Did he tell you anything interesting last night?”

Even though he shows a suspicious glare at my question, Riku decides to answer. “He said that he and Kairi ran into you guys at our school, and that… Are you seriously looking into Nida’s suicide? I mean, Sora was really torn up by Nida’s death, and if you’re just playing with him—“

“We’re serious,” Squall states firmly before turning his back to us and opening the gate to the backyard.

Riku glances at me in a silent question, to which I shrug and motion for him to follow the brunet. We step through the gate and trail after Squall until he waves for us to stay put, which means leaving us in about a foot of snow while he continues forward, eventually stepping around the back of the house.

Since Squall chooses to keep us unenlightened, I decide to ask the kid, “Did your lover boy happen to mention anything else on the phone?”

“He’s _not_ —“ Riku bites off his anger and answers, “Not really. He said something about Vince wandering around outside and about curfews, and then Sora hung up to go get him.”

“And who’s Vince?”

“His latest roommate. Some smart kid with a pretty messed up background.” Riku lifts a hand to brush pale strands of hair from his face. “The thing is, before Sora hung up, he made me promise to meet him today. I went to the school and waited for over an hour before I started to think that something was wrong…”

“Don’t worry about the munchkin. He looks like he can handle himself, and that’s assuming something actually happened to him. I mean, do you honestly think there’s a reason for him to get sucked into something dangerous?”

Fidgeting on his feet, Riku admits, “Not really, but things happen to Sora. There have also been all those stories on the news about that guy who kills kids…”

“Doubtful. Compared to that fucker’s usual victims, your buddy is too old and doesn’t have the right features. There’s no reason for him to be targeted.” Noticing Riku’s stunned look, I force a smile and tell him, “I hear things, and well, at least it’s one less thing to worry about, right?”

“That might not matter at this point,” Squall announces before stepping around the corner. He tosses something at the teen, Riku fumbling with the object before getting a solid hold on it. The black cell phone stands out against pale skin and a house key hangs from a leather strap between his fingers. Without a spoken word, I can tell by Riku’s expression that he’s very familiar with it.

Gripping hard on the phone, Riku stares at Squall in search of answers.

“There was some kind of struggle,” Squall explains. “I found that in the snow.”

“No, the old lady… She said she didn’t hear anything…” Riku argues in a near whisper, apparently not so ready to believe something had happened to his friend after all. “Is Sora… Do you think Sora is…?”

Blue-gray eyes shift to the side while Squall considers his answer, but the teen doesn’t have any intention of waiting. Riku darts past the brunet before Squall can restrain him, not that Squall tries very hard to stand in the boy’s way. As I trail after the hotheaded kid, I glance at Squall in a vague attempt to understand his gain in letting Riku witness a potential crime scene. Quiet eyes stare back at me, no regret visible in the cool depths.

I walk around the corner of the house to find Riku standing in the middle of the backyard, his shoulders slumped and his hand loose around Sora’s phone. Two steps in front of him, the snow has been upturned by strong activity and it doesn’t have the feel of a disturbance caused by normal play. The dark splatter of blood on white snow has plenty to do with that feeling, although the handful of quarter-sized droplets isn’t too much blood to lose. I’ve done worse damage when breaking my nose, not that I’m going to belittle Riku’s fears by telling him that.

“… Who would do this?” Riku asks, his voice rough and low.

“I don’t know, kid,” I reply when Squall doesn’t seem to notice the question, his gaze elsewhere in thought. “You said that the munchkin likes to get involved in things. Did he mention anything that could have led to this?”

“No, nothing like this,” he says with a shake of his head. “When Sora gets involved, it’s usually in some stupid schoolyard fight against the latest bully. He also gets into trouble with his foster mother for a lot of the same reasons. He doesn’t like watching other kids get pushed around.”

I almost smile at the description, curious how the pint-sized kid does in these fights of his. “He sounds like someone who won’t go down easy.”

Riku scowls at the comment, his green-blue eyes focused on the spots of blood on snow.

Blood and snow... I had almost forgotten about my dream from this morning, but I doubt it had anything to do with this situation. The setting and emotions are all wrong, not that I’m particularly comforted by the fact. Hoping for more answers, I look away from the place of obvious struggle and take note of the jumble of footprints that lead away from the house, but never go back. Meanwhile, the footsteps from the back fence lead to and from the middle of the yard, but it seems like a weak escape plan for someone carrying body, either struggling or deadweight. And yet, there’s no wavering in the steps, no second guesses about taking the easier path out the front gate instead.

Squall walks into my line of sight at that point, the brunet following close to the path of footsteps.

“Hey, should you be doing that, Sherlock? Isn’t this a crime scene or some shit like that?”

He doesn’t acknowledge my worry while moving to the back fence, and after a moment of study, he pushes the wood to reveal a gate that leads into the next yard.

I frown at the sight. “That’s odd. Don’t fences usually exist to keep the neighbors and their pets out?”

Riku looks up and makes a halfhearted sound of realization. “Sora mentioned it once. The previous owners of these two houses were related or something, so they had the gate made, but there should be a heavy lock on it. The current neighbors got pretty upset when some of the older foster kids would cross through their yard while trying to sneak in past curfew.”

Just as the teen finishes his explanation, Squall bends down and retrieves something from the snow, eventually displaying a large lock with the latch cut in half.

“Looks like someone was prepared,” I mutter at the find.

“Someone who knew there would be a lock blocking his path,” Squall adds while glancing over his shoulder into the neighbor’s yard.

“Okay, I get that people don’t normally carry around a set of bolt cutters,” I concede, “but who’s going to want to rob a place like this? It seems like a stupid chance to take, especially when the house is full of kids who could wake up at any moment. The payoff can’t be worth the risk.”

“There’s nothing to steal,” Riku contributes, his voice full of frustration. “We’re pretty certain that the old lady’s only income is the money she gets from supporting foster kids.”

“And yet, the lock has been cut,” Squall maintains before closing the gate. His gaze lowers to the covered ground, the glare of white snow adding a metallic sharpness to his eyes. “He had no interest in the house.”

“That’s a pretty big assumption, Sherlock.”

Taking the bait to explain his thoughts, Squall points at the initial trail of footprints that lead from the gate to the center of the backyard. “If he was after the house, he should have followed the fence and stayed hidden in the shadows, but he walked out in the open. What he wanted was right here.”

I glare at the series of footprints, trying to figure out whatever it is that Squall can see in the mess of snow. “So what, one of the kids brought something out to him? You do realize how that could be anything from stolen goods, to illegal drugs, to freshly baked cookies, right?”

When Squall doesn’t say anything in turn, I lift my gaze to find the dark-haired man with his eyes lightly closed in thought. I readily recognize the expression as the one Squall shows whenever he’s about to say something he finds distasteful, but unavoidable. Since the topic of our non-relationship treads those lines, I have witnessed this particular look on several occasions.

Reopening his eyes, Squall asks, “Who is Vince?”

Riku glances at me before replying, “Vincent Valentine, I think. He shares a room with Sora. I don’t know much more about him than what I already said to Seifer, but what does he matter?”

“You made it sound like Sora was watching over him,” Squall continues to prod. “Maybe Vince is younger and new to the system? Maybe about eight- or nine-years-old and dark-haired?”

His eyes going wide, Riku whispers, “How did you--?”

“ _Fuck_ no.” The sharp curse escapes me when I realize what theory Squall is playing at, and with his pale gaze focused on me, I point an accusing finger at the brunet. “It can’t be that. It can’t be fucking _that_.”

Squall crosses his arms over his chest in the unspoken question of “Why not?”

“You have no evidence!” I lash out with growing anger. “You can’t connect these two cases just because it sounds good. Where’s your proof beyond a kid who sounds like an easy victim?”

“Too many circumstances,” Squall retorts in a calmer voice. “We came here to learn more about Strife, and this is the scene we come across. Assuming Zack is dead—“

“You can’t just _assume_ a guy to death, Loire,” I interrupt, knowing that it stems from the childish need to have at least one of the kids alive. Just one…

Blue-gray eyes show a flash of pity before Squall continues, “Strife delivered that letter to Zack’s parents, which makes him the likely writer.”

“Maybe he didn’t want Zack’s parents to worry,” I try to argue.

“He saw us yesterday at the location of Nida’s suicide. That could have caused him to panic, triggered his need to kill, and forced him into taking another victim, a risky victim from a familiar location where he knows every escape route.”

Clenching my teeth, I insist, “You still don’t have proof, and if you ask me, it sounds like you’re making these connections for your own convenience. After all, if these two situations are linked, you don’t have to feel guilty about abandoning Sora while we continue our hunt for Roth, right?”

A subtle tightening of his lips and shadowing of his eyes changes Squall’s expression from reserved to harshly frigid, a trick I’ve seen before from the brunet, but that experience does nothing to lessen the overall effect of his glare.

“What are you two _talking_ about?” Riku demands, his eyes shifting between Squall and me. “Zack? And I assume you mean Cloud? What do they have to do with Sora’s kidnapping?”

“Maybe something, but probably nothing,” I reply before Squall can fill the kid’s head with more false hope.

Squall scoffs at my resistance and asks, “Why was Sora taken, Seifer?”

“What do you mean?”

“Whoever came here, whether to rob this place or kidnap a young boy, was interrupted by Sora’s appearance. That person lashed out and injured Sora, but didn’t leave the boy behind or kill him. Why?”

I struggle with the question, not liking the only answer that comes to mind, but when Squall lifts a dark eyebrow in a taunting manner, I’m forced to give him the response he wants. “For the record, there could be a million different reasons, but if the guy knew the munchkin and liked him, then it’s possible that he didn’t want to hurt the kid more than he already did. He could’ve taken Sora for medical attention or…” When I hesitate, Squall nods for me to grudgingly continue, “Or he took the kid because Sora knows exactly who he is.”

A surprisingly strong hand grabs my arm, and with fingernails digging into my jacket, I’m grateful for the layers of winter clothes. Lifting my gaze from the offending hand, I find myself staring into young eyes that shine with a worrisome degree of violent intent. I suppose it was only a matter of time before the kid snapped, but I was hoping for a weeping mess instead of a potential murderer on my hands.

“Are you saying Cloud was the one to hurt Sora?” Riku demands, which is almost amusing since I’m the last person this kid trusts. Still, I’ve earned that mistrust by saying things he doesn’t want to hear, and whatever the truth might be at this moment, it probably fits into that category.

“Come on, kid, you’re standing in the same spot we are—do you really think we can tell anything from a few footprints in snow?”

“Nothing around here suggests Cloud is involved, but both of you are talking about him anyway,” Riku insists while tightening his grip, apparently not letting me escape with my unhelpful answer. “What else do you know?”

Exhaling a frustrated sigh, I glare at the silent brunet. “This is your fault, you know.”

Maybe recognizing the tenuous hope he has given the teen, Squall uncrosses his arms and admits, “I know it seems like little more than a guess, but this is how I work.” In a quieter voice, he adds, “This is how I found you.”

And that’s the undeniable truth right there. Where other people have failed, Squall has the magical ability to take broken, seemingly insignificant bits of evidence and create a story that ultimately leads him to a final answer. An old fashioned soda glass led him to Riku, a graffiti-based image saved a woman from death, and the sounds of buses and drink orders brought him back into my life. Nothing definite, nothing to place bets on, but Squall hasn’t been wrong. Not yet, at least.

“You’re a smart man, Sherlock, but we both know that you’ve been distracted by your mother’s situation,” I say as gently as possible, but I still earn a glare from the brunet. “Tell me that you’re certain about this and that we aren’t about to sacrifice two kids to a potential murderer because you want to follow the theory that serves your mother’s best interests. Tell me that, and I’ll follow you wherever you want to go.”

Squall hesitates briefly, a moment of consideration before he states firmly, “My mother would never forgive me if I placed her ahead of a child’s life.”

A smirk crossing my lips, I return my attention to the bulldog at my arm. “There you have it, kid. Squall and I have things to do, and you’re not invited.”

“I’m going,” Riku demands.

“For the love of—“

“I didn’t _tell him_ ,” Riku interrupts, sounding more like the pubescent teenager he is. “He doesn’t know anything, and _this_ had to happen before I could… He needs me, and I have to be there for him. You can understand that, right?”

I glance at the dark-haired beauty and focus on stony blue-gray. “I understand the sentiment better than you know.”

With growing hope, Riku presumes, “You’ll take me then?”

“Fuck no,” I reply with a snap of my arm, hitting the silvered-haired teen in the gut and shoving him back a couple steps in slick snow.

Furious, Riku snarls at me and balls his hands into tight fists, but that’s all he manages before Squall steps between us. It takes a single glance at Squall’s face before Riku shows a defeated expression, his arms lowering another second later. “I want to help,” he tries one last time.

“Then go home,” Squall says in a strict tone. “We can’t help Sora if we have to keep an eye on you.”

Riku opens his mouth to argue, but surprisingly changes tactics with a shake of his head. “Promise that you’ll bring him home to me and not back to this place.”

Squall offers a slight nod in response.

With an exhaled breath somewhere between relieved and beaten, Riku lifts a hand to brush aside pale hair that continues to fall into his eyes. “Do you really think Cloud Strife has something to do with this?”

“That appears to be the case,” I reply, but not a full believer just yet, I can’t keep the sarcasm from my voice.

“Do you know where he is?” Squall asks.

“No, not since he lived here, but that guy….” Riku swallows thickly, his eyes distant in thought. “We had a couple classes together last year, and while he’s always been a little strange, it was worse before he dropped out of school. There were rumors about him taking steroids, so maybe that had something to do with it.”

“Steroids? We haven’t heard anything about him and sports,” I ask, honestly curious since I’ve seen what the guy looks like and “on the juice” isn’t a descriptor I would’ve used.

“He didn’t do sports, at least not with the school teams, and I think that’s what made it a little strange when he started to gain some noticeable muscle.” Riku glances over his shoulder at the spots of blood on snow and scowls at the sight. “Sora actually felt bad for him. He knew Cloud wanted to follow after Zack and was willing to do anything to make it happen, but Zack had some pretty high goals. He was going to be an elite soldier of some kind, and Cloud… Well, even if he was on steroids, he wasn’t that impressive.”

I hum at the scenario, my gaze drifting toward Squall as I’m reminded of my own need to do anything to gain the dark-haired man’s attention. I’ve already tasted the powers trapped within me and I’ve felt the potential danger they can cause, but I don’t hold the same fear toward them as I usually do. A large part of me knows it’s because I was able to protect Squall, but another darker part of my mind recognizes the chance of putting the brunet forever in my debt if I save his mother. I’m not certain if I would actually force that debt on Squall or if he would allow me that power over him, but the thought is there and its existence frightens me when I think about it too hard.

“We should go,” Squall says, already walking toward the front yard.

Impressed how thoughtless the brunet can get when focused on his cases, I look to Riku and offer, “Do you need a ride home?”

The teen considers it, but shakes his head. “I need to cool down and take the time to think. Just… tell me the truth—what are the chances that Sora is still alive?”

“Sorry, kid, but I don’t have an answer for you beyond my promise that, if he is alive, Squall will find him, and we’ll get him back to you.”

His smile tight, Riku nods his thanks before we trail after the impatient brunet.

Once in front of the house, the silver-haired teen pulls the hood of his jacket over his head and jesters with a vague wave before stepping into the street to use the sidewalk across the way. His head down and his hands shoved into his pockets, Riku looks more like a punk-ass kid hiding a can of spray paint rather than a teenager who listens to his elders. While I can hope that Riku isn’t planning something stupid, like looking for Strife himself, I know that the kid will do exactly that. Our best bet is to find Strife first.

Looking for Squall, I spot him sitting in the driver’s seat of the jeep with his arms crossed over his chest and his head bowed in thought. The engine silent, I frown at his apparent decision that we aren’t going anywhere just yet. Opening the side door, I slide into the passenger seat and get comfortable with my arms folded behind my head.

“I have a bad feeling about that kid,” I say while eyeing Riku’s back. “Do you think he lied about not knowing where Strife lives?”

“I’m not certain it matters,” Squall comments in a distant fashion.

“I’m sorry, are you saying it doesn’t matter that he’s walking straight into the hands of a killer? Or are you reconsidering Strife’s role in all of this?”

Blue-gray eyes shift in thought, and I doubt he even heard my question. “Taking Sora was a risky move, something Strife did on his own. The Strangler, however, has been meticulous, leaving no piece of useful evidence behind. Nothing like this mess.”

“For all we know, you mean,” I say in correction. “Those other boys could’ve been runaways, and who notices footprints in alleyways or wherever else those kids hide.”

“Either way, last night was a mistake when there haven’t been mistakes…”

With a chill in my blood, I realize the direction of his thoughts. “Sounds a lot like Roth.”

As if a decision had been made, Squall uncrosses his arms and switches on the jeep’s ignition without a word of warning. The wheels spin on wet ice before the jeep jumps forward into the street, and given my knowledge of how Squall drives his motorcycle, I promptly grab for the seatbelt.

“God, Squall, don’t tell me that we’re going to Roth’s old place,” I half-beg, not wanting to revisit that place in the physical world. It was enough to be trapped there in my dreams.

“The house was sold years ago,” Squall says in a factual tone.

“Okay, I don’t know what’s more disturbing—that someone bought the house of horrors or that you know it’s off the market.”

“It was cheap,” Squall explains, although I’m not quite certain what part he’s trying to explain away.

“Then where are we going?”

“Roth’s first workshop.”

I shiver at his decision to use that particular terminology, not that I know what else to call a place designed for torturing women. “Alright, then let’s say that everything we have been assuming thus far is true. That means we’re about to go face-to-face against a serial killer, and while I’m surprisingly fine with that, there are also two kids involved who are either dead or in serious trouble. Shouldn’t we call the police or something sensible like that?”

Jaw muscles clenching, Squall focuses on the street ahead of us without offering a vocal answer.

While it’s interesting to watch the brunet’s sense of reason clash against his need for personal vengeance, I know that I’m not ready to see a child be murdered with my own eyes. “Call up your lady detective, Squall. I know you like her, and better yet, she seems to trust your word. If you’re lucky, she might not even question how you figured out where a most-wanted serial killer has been hiding all this time.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Squall argues, his grip on the wheel tightening.

“Then what’s the problem, Sherlock?”

His eyes not quite looking my way, he says guardedly, “This may be our only chance with Roth.”

Leaning forward, I try to catch his gaze when I ask, “And what, do you really think that I would let a witness or two stop me from sending that fucker to Hell?”

Blue-gray eyes study my face before full lips twitch into a vague smirk. “You’re too reckless.”

“Only when it matters,” I maintain, wishing that we weren’t in a speeding car right now. God, those lips are begging for a hard and fast kiss.

Squall reaches into a jacket pocket and tosses his cell phone at me. “Call Selphie and put her on speaker,” he commands, just before gunning the accelerator to make it through a very questionable yellow light.

“Right, because we wouldn’t want you to drive erratically,” I mutter while navigating through his phone.

His contact list is a strange sight with series of pseudonyms instead of a single recognizable name including “Angry Warthog,” “Bars Enough,” and surprisingly “Chickenwuss,” the sight of which almost making me laugh since Squall mentioned that he had forgotten the nickname for Zell until I had brought it up again. Still, witnessing the risk Squall takes with his alternate life as “Leon,” it makes sense for him to use this simple tactic to keep both his family and his sources safe from prying eyes. In the same vein, it doesn’t make finding Selphie’s number a simple matter.

“What name am I looking for here?”

“’Artemis’.”

“The huntress goddess, huh? Seems like a name that would suit the gunslinger.”

With a dark eyebrow lifted, Squall asks, “You know Greek mythology?”

“To a point,” I admit with a grin. “I discovered in middle school that the paintings from back then are full of naked lovelies. It was by accident that I learned some of the legends at the same time.”

Squall snorts and murmurs, “Figures.”

Before I select the option for “Artemis,” I skim through the rest of the list in search of the name Squall chose for my cell phone, and it seems a bit too obvious when I find it. “Really, you couldn’t think of something better for me than ‘The Quarterback’?”

“That’s not yours.”

Already hitting the dial button for Selphie’s number, I don’t have the time to ask more than, “Wait, then what name did you give me?”

Squall does an excellent job of looking like he didn’t hear the question.

The phone rings once before a click sounds over the line. <“Hey there, sunshine. I’m kinda busy, so is this business, personal, or should I even ask?”>

“Business,” Squall replies in a firm tone, “and I need you to avoid saying anything that would attract attention.”

<“Hmmm, that depends—what are you going to do for me?”> the detective counters playfully.

“I may have a lead on the ‘Johnny Strangler’.”

There is a momentary pause on the line before Selphie replies in a more serious tone, <”I’m listening.”>

“We don’t have time for me to explain everything. Meet us at the entrance to the old Olympus chemical plant, and I’ll give you the condensed version there.”

<”Now wait a minute, do you think he’s there or is this some kind of hunting expedition?”>

Squall hesitates before replying, “I would prefer you to come alone, but if there’s someone you can control, a second gun could be useful.”

<”Damn it, Squall, if this is something big—“>

“He’s worried about me,” I cut in when it sounds like the woman is on the edge of blowing everything.

<”Wait, is that Handsome? Squall’s got you involved in this, too?”>

“Kind of. See, there’s more happening here than a guy who likes killing kids, and it’s not going to stop unless I do something.”

Grumbling comes over the line, her irritated words unintelligible as Selphie debates the possibility of this being a really bad plan. By her tone, I’m guessing that this isn’t the first time Squall has asked her to do something questionable, not that Selphie hasn’t done the same to Squall on several occasions.

“We’re on the way now,” Squall offers as motivation for her to decide more quickly.

<”Don’t you _dare_ go in without me, Squall Loire. I will kick your fine ass if you even breathe on that building before I get there. Understood?” >

When the brunet doesn’t seem about to make that promise, I decide to take the detective’s side. “Don’t worry, gunslinger. We won’t make a move until you’re there to join in the fun.”

<”I’m holding you to that, Handsome!”> Selphie says in a rush before hanging up, apparently not fully trusting my ability to keep Squall in place.

Squall grabs the phone from my hand and shoves it into his jacket pocket before directing a freezing, although brief glare in my direction. With the snowstorm getting steadily worse, the other drivers on the road have become sloth-like obstacles for Squall to dodge, which thankfully means he can’t focus on me for too long.

“Don’t give me that look, Loire. What’s the point in calling for backup if you’re not going to wait for them to get there?”

He huffs, obviously not sharing my opinion.

Before I can add fuel to the fire, Squall takes a hard left turn that encourages me to grab onto the handlebar above the side door. At this point, it seems wiser to let Squall drive without any additional distractions like my running mouth. Silence, however, turns out to be harder than I thought when I’m suddenly assaulted by the reality of the situation. Two kids, one of whom I know and like, are potentially being tortured by someone who may not be in control of his actions, but instead swayed by a demonic ghost with a silver-tongue and a vendetta against me.

I should prepare for this, ready my powers before things get out of hand, but I’m once again reminded that I don’t really know what I’m doing. Thus far, I have reacted to fear and need, but if I’m going to do this right, that has to change. I have to fully accept my powers, allow that strange energy to flow throughout my body without resistance… And somehow, that frightens me more than the idea of facing a sadistic ghost who wants me dead.

Needing a distraction from my own thoughts, I point out to Squall, “You still haven’t told me what name you gave me in your phone.”

Squall glances at me, his eyes sharp with understanding. “Hn, I’ll tell you when we’re done.”

And once again, I’ve been figured out by this man with little more than an innocent phrase on my part. Some of my anxiety passes at Squall’s certainty that there will be a later, but I can’t shake my apprehension at the knowledge that he trusts my abilities a bit too much. One of these days, I should figure out where Squall finds the strength to believe in the impossible, whether it’s in my powers or in his own farfetched theories. It seems so unlike him…

Or maybe it’s just like Squall to make his own choices about what is believable and what is impossible, and I can only hope that he’s right.

~ > < ~

Squall parks the jeep on cracked asphalt that once served as an entryway to the building complex of the Olympus chemical processing plant. Tall chain-link fences encircle the entire area with a scattering of signs that declare the hazards beyond the unimpressive barrier. A bright yellow triangle with the image of skull and crossbones seems a little overdone, but I suppose it gets the message across crystal clear.

Looking beyond the fence, I take in the sight of the burnt chemical plant. I remember being in the second grade when the news of the explosion ripped through the school. Several kids and at least one teacher lost relatives that day, and with the resulting chaos, we were all sent home. I spent most of the day with my grandparents, my mom not showing up until late that night with smears of soot on her body. She had tried to warm people about the pending explosion, but no one listened. It was a miracle she wasn’t killed herself, but in repayment for trying to help, she was held by the police as a bombing suspect until they identified the mechanical failure that had caused the explosion.

My mom held me for a long time that night, and I had to hide my fear when her hot tears fell onto my skin. Even back then I had a good idea that I would eventually share her unfair fate of seeing futures that couldn’t be saved, but I didn’t like the reminders of what I couldn’t avoid.

Squall leaves the jeep in a swift move, forcing me to hurry after the man who has the nerve to claim I’m the reckless one. He reaches the fence before me, his hand going to the heavy chain and lock that prevents unauthorized entry. It’s a joke of a security measure when several sections of the surrounding fence are leaning at dangerous tilts. If someone really wanted to get beyond that chained gate, it shouldn’t take anymore skill than a strong kick.

“Why in the world would Roth use a place like this?”

“Olympus went bankrupt after the cleanup, and there were no other buyers for the property,” Squall explains in a clinical manner. “With no owners and the hazard signs keeping stragglers away, Roth had the luxury to do whatever he wanted without anyone hearing the screams of his victims.”

I frown while staring at the burnt building, wondering if it should look familiar to me. Surely there should have been another dream, another chance to stop Roth before he had hurt Raine, but nothing sparks a memory. Nothing, and I pray it’s not because I chose to forget those particular dreams, even if I was only a kid at the time.

The quiet clang of metal draws my attention back to Squall. He lifts the lock and points out how the metal has only a few spots of noticeable rust, an obvious replacement for whatever previously secured the corroded chain.

“Well shit, it looks like someone else has found a use for this place,” I say cynically, a part of me wishing that Squall had been wrong about this.

Letting the chain and lock fall back to the fence, Squall takes a step back and glances along both sides of the fence before heading right. Not given a choice, I follow the brunet as he moves purposefully toward a far corner of the fence. It’s not until we’re steps away that I notice the opening that had been made by someone who wasn’t bothered by the bright red sign with flames hanging just above that spot. Squall kicks at the opening to widen it before he slips through, startling me into a poor attempt to grab him that results in a clatter against the fence.

Squall glares at me for the noise, to which I glare back through the chain-links.

“I thought we were waiting for a pair of guns,” I remind him, knowing that he has more patience than he’s showing now.

“I didn’t make that promise,” Squall retorts and starts to walk off.

Forced to chase after him, I drag myself through the opening that is just barely big enough for my body, although something tears as I hurry through. Glancing down, I see that a healthy chunk of my jacket lining was sacrificed to the fence, which hopefully means that my pants are still intact. With a long stride, I catch up to Squall and make another move to grab him, but he reverses the hold in a sharp motion.

Shoving me hard against the wall of a side building, Squall pins me in place with his bent arm pressed against my chest. “We can’t afford to wait for Selphie,” Squall insists in a low voice.

My breath partially lost, I can’t speak louder than a whisper. “Then what was the point of calling them?”

“To clean up our mess,” he replies with a blood-chilling gleam to his eyes, and I instantly decide that I don’t need to know Squall’s plans for this child killer, especially if Cloud isn’t as innocent as we have assumed thus far.

Lifting my hands in surrender, I remind him, “I’m not here to fight you, remember?”

The question was meant to be rhetorical, but Squall shows a startled expression of realization. “But you have been fighting me… this whole time…”

“Hey now, that’s a little unfair,” I argue, but the rest of my case is cut short when Squall abruptly turns and steps away.

“I dragged you here without giving you the chance to prepare. I didn’t even think…” Halting his rambling, Squall straightens and focuses intent blue-gray on me. “Do you think you can’t do this?”

My arrogant side wants to laugh at his first show of doubt, but the sound that comes from me doesn’t have a hint of confidence to it. So much for proving myself to this man.

“Seifer…”

“I’m afraid of failing you, okay?” I blurt out, surprising myself as much as Squall. “I don’t know what the fuck I did to send my bastard of a father to Hell, and I don’t know if I can do it again. And now, if I falter in front of that demon, he could lash out against those boys or your mom. Even worse, he could come after you and make me watch…” That weird laugh leaves me again. “This is the first time I’ve had a lot to lose, and I don’t want to lose any of it.”

Pale eyes unreadable, Squall stares at my face for a long moment before he steps close enough to almost touch me. His silence continues when he presumably tries to come up with some trite words about how I can do this and how he believes in me. I don’t need those easy words, but somewhat calmed by his close presence, I decide to allow him the chance to convince me that everything will be all right.

Full lips part in a false start before Squall finally says, “I want to see your powers again.”

Blinking, I stutter out, “Y-you… what?”

With a vague smile, Squall lifts his hand to my chest. “You can do that for me, right?”

I find myself nodding before I realize what I’m committing myself to, and with that agreement, Squall turns and renews his path to the main part of the chemical plant.

Regaining my sense with that distance placed between us, I hurry after the man and demand, “Wait a minute, did you actually see something when I—“

In a sharp move, Squall holds a finger to his lips, efficiently avoiding the answer I’ve wanted from him ever since my father first attacked the brunet. While it’s obvious that Squall can’t see the same spirits I do, something has caught his attention whenever I face a ghost. Maybe it’s as basic as Squall being intrigued by my fights with something beyond his understanding, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s hiding something, and thus far, I haven’t liked a single thing he has kept from me.

As we approach the main building, Squall points toward the far side where an old pickup truck sits unprotected under the falling snow. A quiet curse escapes me when I notice the flashy motorcycle hidden behind the pickup, the sight of Zack’s bike proving that this is really happening. Allowing me that whispered outburst, Squall increases his pace to a side entrance where the door hangs open. Inside, Squall takes a right-hand turn down the hallway with the directness of someone who knows where he is going. I follow his lead when he walks close against the wall and eventually slows to a stop when we approach a series of rooms with cracked windows that view inside.

Squall glances beyond those windows, his posture relaxing minutely when he whispers, “They must be farther in.”

As Squall walks off, I look into the room to discover that it’s some kind of laboratory, which makes sense with this being a chemical plant and all. The remains of police tape and dark stains on otherwise clean bench tops, however, suggest that Roth had another use for the room. The idea brings a chill to my spine, and when I shift my focus to Squall, that chill spreads to the rest of my body.

While partially lit from holes in the high ceiling, the hallway gets darker with every step away from the side entrance, and the place looks as inviting as a scene from a horror movie. To add to the ambience, I can feel the bitter energy of the souls that had been unfairly and cruelly ripped from their living bodies, but strangely, no ghost makes itself known to my eye. Instead, the spirits hide in the shadows like frightened rabbits, heightening my anxiety about the demon lurking in the darkness ahead.

Noticing my delay, Squall glances back and frowns in a silent question. While I can assume many versions of that question, I imagine his greatest worry is if I’m willing to continue with this reckless mission.

I sigh at the reality that I’m too far into this mess to turn around now. I try to step carefully on the floor littered with glass, but I can’t replicate the soundless steps Squall had managed moments ago. His expression serious and hinted with something else, Squall waits for my approach before he leads us down the hallway toward a pair of double doors, one of which held up by a single bent hinge that looks about ready to give way at any minute. Holding the other door open, Squall motions me ahead into the shadowed hallway.

After a few glances inside empty rooms, Squall increases his pace to the far end of the hallway where the explosion damage is the worst. Trailing after him, I eventually hear the faint echo of weak coughs that must have caught Squall’s attention. Inching through the opening that has hinges but no door, Squall glances into the room and then freezes in place at whatever he sees.

“I know you’re there,” a young male voice abruptly sounds. “Come out where I can see you.”

Hesitating, Squall motions for me to stay back as he moves forward, foolishly thinking that I’d make a good backup to whatever plan he has in mind. Squall makes it two steps inside, however, when the voice speaks again with clear agitation.

“ _Both_ of you.”

Sighing, I follow after Squall and walk onto the factory floor that immediately opens up into an expansive room filled with pieces of broken machinery and fallen tanks. Snow flutters into the room from the jagged holes in high ceiling, briefly reminding me of my dream before the sound of muffled struggling turns my gaze to the back corner of the room. Bound to an exposed support beam and gagged with his own scarf, Sora looks lively while jerking his arms in the frantic effort to escape, but any relief I feel at finding the munchkin alive is tempered by the blood matting his hair and the distinct puffiness to the corner of his mouth. I wonder what the kid said to deserve a heavy punch like that.

“You’re interfering,” the male voice growls out. “Why are you here?”

My blood goes cold when his words echo those of the demon in my dreams.

Turning my focus to Cloud, I take in the sight of the teen with his blond hair spiked into stiff peaks, his overdone outfit made primarily of leather, and his sapphire eyes shining with a special type of crazy. In his arms is a barely conscious kid with dark hair and a dull gaze of red eyes, the boy standing in a limp pose despite the knife pressed against his deeply bruised throat. It’s almost ridiculous for Cloud to treat the boy as a hostage, as if he didn’t already have plans to kill the kid, but I’m not about to point out the fact to the fucked up teen.

“Let the boy go, Strife,” Squall demands in the voice he usually reserves for “Leon.”

Cloud laughs, the sound chaotic and strange. “You can’t have him. I need him to help Zack, and you’re in the way.”

“Zack Fair?” I speak out from surprise. “Is he here?”

“Y-yes… but no…” he answers with a confused expression, and then plows forward, “That’s why I have to _continue._ I _have_ to do this.”

“What is it that you have to do?” Squall asks with a step forward, but halts when Cloud tightens his hold on the knife.

“He’s lost. I have to give him a way back.” Cloud hugs the unmoving boy closer to his body and adds, “Sephiroth said this is the only way.”

Feeling cold at the name that too closely resembles “Stephen Roth” to be a coincidence, I stare at the teen and question, “What did this Seph-y-Roth tell you, kid?”

The kid tilts his head as if considering his answer, but Cloud doesn’t say anything as his eyelids flutter almost closed. A slight breeze picks up and snowflakes swirl around the spiky-haired teen, seemingly caressing his pale skin. And then I see a wisp of darkness that flows between the pure flakes. Without need of thought, I step directly in front of Squall, much to his annoyance judging by a low growl and his hand grabbing the back of my jacket, but I don’t care what plans I’ve ruined for the brunet by being in the way.

“I know you’re here, Roth,” I say in the dual attempt of gaining the attention of a murdering sadist while also trying to convince Squall that he doesn’t need to step into the path of another dangerous ghost. It’s a shaky plan, but it’s not like I have many other options. “Show yourself before I make you come out.”

A low, humorless chuckle sounds as the breeze picks up speed, the wisps of darkness condensing into a very familiar shadow for a terrible second before the figure of Stephen Roth takes a solid form. My entire body shivers from the memories sparked by his appearance, and I’m surprised by how much I remember of the man—his strange cat-like eyes, the cold curl of his lips, and the arrogant way he holds himself. Unlike his old self, however, his silver hair is ridiculously long, almost to his ankles, and the pale strands sway and twist among the dark feathers of a single, very large wing. It looks like this fucker has made quite an image for himself in death.

“The name is Sephiroth,” the ghost corrects in a superior tone.

“Is that so?” I mock in an effort to hide my instinctual fear. “I’ve got to say that ‘Seph-y-Roth’ sounds a lot like some magician hack who does birthday parties and bat mitzvahs.”

His smirk untouched, Roth places a hand at Cloud’s head. “This one couldn’t understand me at first, but I’ve grown fond of the name. He believes me to be an angel.”

The retort on my tongue doesn’t sound when I watch the kid look up at the spirit next to him, his sapphire eyes fondly focused on Roth. It becomes more disturbing when Cloud leans into the ghost’s touch, the teen looking like an obedient dog who lives for the commands of his master.

“Kid… Can you see that fucker?”

Angrily shifting his gaze to me, Cloud scowls. “You should show more respect.”

As I stare dumbly, Roth chuckles at the demand. “He’s less refined than what I’ve seen of your abilities, but it makes him more… manageable.”

“You fucking—“

“I would be careful if I were you,” Roth interrupts. “His hand isn’t very steady.”

I glance down at Cloud and the dark-haired boy in his hold, immediately noticing the thin trail of blood slipping down the boy’s neck. It becomes very apparent that Roth is the one in control and it won’t be an easy matter to strip that power from the sadistic man. I don’t have the energy of Squall’s home to help me this time, and if I call upon those shadows, there’s little chance of Roth sticking around for the show. Worse, I have to consider Cloud’s role in this mess, and it isn’t a good sign that he already has a history of killing helpless kids.

“What’s happening, Seifer?” Squall asks cautiously, but he still gains the attention of the ghost.

“You brought that woman’s son with you,” Roth comments with a strange light to his eyes. “Interesting that you chose him. While he has many of her features, he’s a dense thing. And to think, I originally had so many plans for him.”

My teeth clenching, I raise a guarding arm over Squall as if that would somehow provide better protection against the sadistic spirit. “Let me guess—were those the same plans you had for Lian Xu and Nida Piolt? Is that why they’re dead?”

A muffled yell sounds from Sora, but I can’t afford to turn my attention away from Roth.

“And what right did they have to live?” Roth demands with a flex of his wing. “I held their lives in my hands, their fate to be determined by my mercy alone before I was crudely interrupted. I may have lost my life, but I never released my claim on them. The girl was worthless, a fledging woman with no purpose except to become my first experiment. The boy had some potential, but he was ultimately weak and unable to envision the legacy I offered him.”

Thinking that the kid was actually pretty strong to refuse the legacy of a serial killer, I prod further, “And Zack Fair? What was his ‘fate’?”

Cloud makes a strangled noise while gripping harder onto his hostage.

“As of yet undecided,” Roth assures while stroking his fingers at Cloud’s head, the blond spikes swaying as if physically touched. “I found this rough, untouched gem because of that fool, and for that reason alone, I’m tempted to be merciful.”

“Then… Zack is alive?”

Roth chuckles darkly. “Aren’t you asking the wrong questions, dreamer? Instead of those broken toys, shouldn’t you be more concerned about what I have planned for your future?”

I scoff at his threat. “Didn’t you already try something about that? I don’t remember it working out quite like you planned.”

Losing some of his humor, Roth insists, “I had your _life_ in my hands.”

“That’s right—you had it, and then you lost it,” I point out as I decide upon a sketchy plan to lure the ghost within my reach. If I was able to surprise my father with a punch that actually landed, then the same trick could work against Roth, assuming that he doesn’t get to me first. “And doo know what stopped you from strangling me to death? A two-decade-old protection spell on a stuffed dragon that was so weak, I almost forgot it was even there.”

“…You lie,” Roth states lowly, the spirit moving a step away from Cloud.

“Why should I lie about that?” I ask with exaggerated innocence. “I watched my mom seal that spell with a kiss to the toy’s snout. It was a darling piece of magic when I think about it.”

Cat-like eyes narrow into dangerous slits. “Tread carefully, dreamer.”

Thinking to myself that I’m beyond the point of being careful, I take a small sidestep away from Squall when saying, “You know, now that we’re face-to-face like this, there’s something I’ve really been wanting to know—did death bring you the revelation about who brought the police to your door and a bullet through your chest?”

Pale lips twitch at my suggestion, and when Cloud stands to defend his master’s honor, Roth waves him back.

Enjoying this for what it’s worth, I continue, “Do you know that you have a bad habit of telling your victims everything, including your mother issues? Really, who gives a fuck if your mommy never loved you? Maybe she saw you for what you really are—nothing more than a monster with an impotent dick.”

Rage darkening his translucent face, Roth screams out a banshee’s call when he launches at me.

While it was the outcome I wanted, I failed to fully anticipate how spirits aren’t limited by the same restraints as those of us in the physical world. Roth flies forward with his single wing flared open, and my mind stumbles over the dramatic sight caused by his long hair and fluttering coat. Breaking me from my stare, Squall hisses in pain and retreats several steps before Roth collides against me, one of his hands going straight through my chest. My heart does a funny beat at the touch of unnatural energy, and trying to escape, I trip over my own damn feet. Falling backward, I automatically reach for Roth, and from luck alone, my fingers grasp onto a chunk of silver hair.

We end up in a strange heap on the ground, my body slipping through parts of the ghost while he tries to get a second hold on my heart. I strike out with a punch to his face, but lying on the ground, my range is too limited to cause significant damage. Roth reels back at my attack, and with spider web cracks appearing on his pale cheeks, he stares at me with a wild-eyed gaze. Not giving him the time to think, I push up from concrete and place my hands at his long throat, returning his favor from the other night.

Driven to his back, Roth sneers at my choice in attacks. “Is that supposed to achieve something?”

“Ask me again in about five minutes,” I retort, letting my anger rise with the knowledge of everything this man has done and what he may yet do. The shadows respond quickly this time, either because I’ve gotten good at this or because they are hungry to take this sadist into the darkness, but like the other times, they play their frustrating watching game while I’m forced cling onto the ghost.

Sensing the presence of those shadows, Roth asks in disbelief, “What _are_ you?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Roth tries to disappear, but even as the rest of his body fades, his neck remains solid and unmoving between my fingers. I growl at the effort it takes to keep the dead man in place, my hands burning as if I had a tenuous hold on an electric eel thrashing in ice-cold water. My muscles twitch at the unworldly energy and my head starts to ache from dealing with both Roth and the shadows, which makes it a welcomed relief when a tiny circle of darkness slips from the shadows and warily comes closer to the trapped demon.

A howl abruptly sounds from the side, vaguely resembling a long and angry “ _No_.” I turn my head to see Cloud running at me, his knife held over his head while sapphire eyes burn with honest hate. My fingers feel heavy and stiff when I recognize that I may have to release Roth to save my own neck, but I’m quickly relieved of the necessity of making that decision.

Squall steps into the teen’s path and, without hesitation or mercy, he punches Cloud in the face. Given the teen’s momentum, Cloud’s feet swing up into the air before his back lands hard onto unforgiving concrete. I almost feel bad for Cloud at the sight of his very broken and bloody nose, but Squall doesn’t seem to feel the same way when he kneels down, grabs the front of the kid’s jacket, and punches him even harder than before.

Two strikes later, the clatter of metal sounds against concrete, and I can breathe again knowing that Cloud isn’t going to use that knife again anytime soon.

“Worthless,” Roth hisses at the limp form of his puppet.

Returning my attention to the pinned ghost, I’m forced to hide my disappointment when I see that the small demon had retreated during Cloud’s distracting attack. While still present, the shadows seem wary of taking an offensive stance, not that I understand why.

Roth smiles at me, apparently seeing through my mask. “They tried to take me once before. Don’t think that this outcome will be any different.”

“I’ll make it stick,” I pledge.

With a tilt of his head and a flash of cat-like eyes, Roth replies, “Then I only need to get rid of you.”

A weird laugh leaves me at his threat, but before I can question his methods, a sudden breeze blows thick snowflakes into my face. I almost mock the pathetic attack, but the wind quickly gains speed and begins to lift dirt and chips of glasses into the air. A larger sliver of glass slices across my neck with enough speed to cut my skin, the resulting droplets of blood then falling through the spirit’s smirking face and onto pale concrete below.

My body flushes with the need of urgency, and placing all of my anger and fear into my call, I growl out, “Take him now, you fuckers, or be prepared to lose him forever.”

A strange, keening whine sounds from the watching shadows, and with the speed of someone about to lose an important prize, three circles of darkness slide across broken concrete to move under Roth. Small black hands grab onto his shoulders and hair, their touch angering the ghost such that the force of his controlled wind doubles in intensity.

“Seifer!”

I automatically turn my head at the scream, just in time to see a glimmer of metal and wet blood. I recoil from the flying knife, but not far enough to avoid the point of the blade. I yell out in pain, but have enough sense to keep my hold on Roth’s neck despite my instinct to lift a hand to my face.

My left eye squeezed tight because of flowing blood, I direct a single-eyed glare at Roth. “Cute, but you should’ve killed me.”

I clench my fingers as hard as I can, my grip causing fine cracks to appear on porcelain skin until the ghost’s human shell shatters and reveals the toxic darkness hiding beneath. The shadow creatures become overly excited at the broken façade, their odd chittering loud enough to be heard above the howl of wind.

As numerous small demons crawl out from the ground and grin with finely pointed teeth, I gradually realize that there could be a big problem with this scenario. Just as I think that, dark hands reach past me to grab Roth and cut me in their eagerness, but it’s not my clothing or skin that tears from their talons. Hurting in a way I’ve never experienced before, I choke back a scream that wants to sound, refusing to give Roth that pleasure. It’s a front that is particularly hard to maintain when the larger shadows decide to come out and play.

Dealing with his own problems, Roth loses his concentration and resorts to more physical methods to escape me, but it’s hopeless for him to touch my living form in his panicked state. His large wing knocks aside several of the small bugs, their presence quickly replaced by the strong grasps of the larger creatures that look almost human in shape, but with soulless amber eyes and vicious smiles. Like with my father, the larger shadows are the ones that try to pull Roth into the darkness hovering beneath him; meanwhile, the other bugs taunt and tear at Roth, particularly at his vulnerable wing.

In an attempt to speed up the process, I press down on Roth’s neck, but the ghost lashes back to grab onto my arms, his hands surprisingly firm in their grasp.

“I won’t fall alone,” Roth growls, his eyes burning with conviction.

“Sorry, but us living folk aren’t welcomed where you’re headed.”

His smile toothy and mean, Roth contends, “That only applies to your body.”

My eyes narrow with uncertainty as I try to remember if my mother talked about any such thing, but then Roth is jerked down a couple inches into darkness. I cry out at the feel of the world shifting in a very wrong way, causing my vision to double and my heart to pound in an erratic beat. My muscles ache all over and my head spins as if an avalanche of rock and sharp debris had just assaulted me. I don’t have a fucking clue what just happened, but incredibly, my stranglehold on Roth doesn’t loosen.

The drum of boots running on concrete sounds, and too sore to even think of flinching away, I glance to the side in anticipation of Cloud awakening with a deep urge to kill. Instead of blond hair, however, I see a flutter of dark chestnut before Squall drops to his knees and slides up against my side. Strong arms wrap around my waist, and before I can understand the clarity that his presence brings me, Roth screams out in an echo of my father’s cry when he came in contact with the brunet. My lips curl from the thought that Roth has finally gotten a taste of the pain his victims had felt time and time again.

The shadows titter at his cry, and with the vague sound of “yes, yes” echoing within their nonsense, they latch claws and teeth onto Roth’s body to double their effort in dragging him downward. I’m forced to release my hold, and in a worrisome moment, Roth surges up with his injured wing flailing and his teeth gritted in desperation. The shadows, however, don’t release their hold before a frighteningly large demon rises from the ground and places a hand around Roth’s exposed throat. The creature glances at me, and with a glimmer of blues and soft brown within amber eyes, the shadow smiles cruelly before dragging Roth to whatever Hell exists for men like him.

The shadows depart rapidly after Roth, their exit causing a harsh wind to fill the void left behind and to throw more dirt into my face.

Exhausted, I drop to my side, barely kept sitting by Squall’s hold around my waist. Stormy eyes shine with worry when he examines my face, and getting a good look at the damage Roth had left behind, perfect lips tighten in displeasure.

I try to smile, but fail when small cuts are angered by the pull of muscles. “Be honest—did I look cooler than the last time?”

His lips falling into a scowl, Squall grabs the front of my jacket with a jerk. Expecting a punch or slap for my ill-timed question, I close my eyes in readiness for his assault, which makes it a pleasant surprise when his mouth clash against mine. My arm heavy and sore, I hold the brunet as best as I can while Squall controls the desperate kiss. The taste of blood intermingles with our tongues, the flavor only making the kiss harsher and more incredible as Squall claws at my chest.

“Drop it!”

I jerk back at the unexpected demand, and looking up, I stare dumbly at the sight of Cloud on his feet despite his mess of a face and the thick blood dripping off his chin. In his bare hand, he holds a pointed chunk of broken glass raised above his shoulder, ready to strike and kill. The only thing stopping him is the gun pointed at the back of his head, and I marvel at the steadiness of the lady detective’s hand.

“I said _drop_ it,” Selphie repeats in a stern tone.

Focused on me, sapphire eyes waver in an expression trapped between despair and confusion. “How could you? Sephiroth was an _angel_ , sent from Heaven to help me… To help me save Zack and bring him back…” His hand tightening around sharp glass that cuts into his hand, Cloud asks, “What am I supposed to do now?”

“Where is Zack, Strife?” I ask cautiously, worried about the lies Roth had told him. “Maybe we can help you instead.”

The teen stares at me wordlessly, looking like he honestly doesn’t know how to answer the question.

“Selph!” a man’s voice calls out from the other end the room. “We have body over here… Well, what’s left of it, that is. Looks old.”

At the announcement, a heartbreaking noise leaves Cloud before he drops to his knees and yells out in pure agony. Cloud lets the piece of glass fall, and to smother his cries, he wraps his arms over his face in an awkward barrier. Without a glimmer of sympathy, Selphie moves in with practiced speed and shoves Cloud to the ground before grabbing his wrists to handcuff him. Cloud surprisingly doesn’t struggle, but continues to groan in misery from something that seems greater than his injuries or being arrested for a list of potential crimes.

“…Zack is dead, isn’t he?” I say to Squall, although I can’t pull my eyes away from the blond teen.

Squall replies with a muttered, “It appears so,” before pulling back. The zip of his jacket startles me, and staring with a single wide eye, I watch Squall remove his jacket, shortly followed by his sweater and undershirt, both oddly damaged. It’s not until the smell of burnt fabric reaches my nose that I realize his protection charm must have gained enough heat to burn through his clothing. I quickly move my gaze to his chest and find an arch of damaged skin. While it doesn’t seem much worse than an ugly sunburn, Squall doesn’t allow me a more thorough examination.

Shoving his folded undershirt into my face, Squall declares, “The bleeding won’t stop unless you apply pressure.”

I reposition the shirt to better cover my sliced skin and leave my right eye uncovered, which unfortunately gives me a clear view of one pissed off and very armed lady detective.

“What on _Earth_ happened here?” Selphie growls out, but before I can attempt an answer, she interrupts, “Didn’t I tell you to wait for me? Didn’t you promise me that no one would do anything until I had the chance to show up? And look at what happened—Handsome is bloody as all hell and he could have been killed! If nothing else, I should arrest the both of you for trespassing and interfering with a police investigation.”

My clumsy apology barely sounds when Squall, his sweater and jacket back on, stubbornly argues, “My mother’s life depended on our action. I couldn’t wait and do nothing.”

Her anger promptly fading, Selphie looks to me and asks, “Is that true? This has something to do with Raine?”

Although curious why she would believe me more than Squall, I nod in response without greater detail. I don’t know where her partner is hiding, and I don’t need him hearing the wrong things.

Selphie sighs and mutters something under her breath about being a pushover. “Okay, I’ll forgive you this one time, especially if this kid is actually involved with the Strangler case. The sooner we solve that mess, the sooner I can stop staring at the photos of dead children.”

Squall frowns at her misunderstanding. “Selphie, he _is_ the Strangler.”

Shocked, Selphie stares down at the battered teen, and after regaining her sense, she curses in a rather crude and lengthy fashion that proves her street cop roots. I manage to catch something about “dumbass babies shouldn’t kill babies,” and I instantly feel bad for the detective. This wasn’t the outcome she wanted, and who can blame her? It’s so much easier to believe that monsters actually look like monsters and not like a confused and hurting teenage boy.

“Is everything okay there?” says a male voice, the same one that had called out earlier.

“Not certain yet,” Selphie stalls in an exhausted tone. “What about those boys? How are they doing?”

A man in the blues of a police officer steps into view, although the swagger of his walk and the way he tips the bill of his hat makes me think of a cowboy who’s wearing the wrong getup. His pink lips lift into a seductive curl that seems out of place in this situation, but with the way violet eyes focus on Selphie, I imagine that his grin has more to do with instinct than intention.

“They’re hurt and tired, but alive,” the man replies while stopping next to Selphie. “I’ve already called for a couple of buses and they should be here in a few minutes.”

“Good to hear,” Selphie replies while jerking the handcuffed teen to his feet, not that Cloud really resists. “Take this kid outside and read him his rights. I’ll handle everything else in here.”

The police officer hesitates before he takes Cloud by the arm, careful to avoid the spots of blood. “Whatever you command, boss,” he says, and with a shove at the teen’s back, he leads the way toward an open emergency exit while Cloud walks in a stumbling, drunken step.

“You brought Kinneas?” Squall asks, his tone oddly light with interest.

“Don’t go there, Squall,” Selphie replies defensively. “You said I should bring someone, and I brought someone.”

“Hn, I guess he has decent aim,” Squall concedes, “but he’s also the last person you should bring into a high pressure situation.”

“Well, whose fault is it that I didn’t know this was a high pressure situation, huh?” Selphie lashes back, her cheeks flushed with anger. “Irvy doesn’t ask questions, and with Handsome involved, he’s the only person I can trust to keep quiet. Now, if you don’t mind, I want to check up on those boys.”

At Squall’s slight nod, Selphie hurries off in the direction of where I last saw the two kids. Stretching to glance around her, I smile faintly at the sight of Sora kneeling next to the other boy, apparently serving as Vince’s current protector. Blood smeared on the side of his face, the munchkin has a pathetic look while he holds tightly onto a small hand and says something I can’t hear. Vince stares up at Sora, his red eyes not exactly clear and focused, but he encouragingly doesn’t seem as pale as he was when we first arrived.

“We should get you to the hospital, too,” Squall says, regaining my attention.

With a smirk, I ask the brunet, “How is that you get to avoid the hospital when you were fucked up with a knife, but I’m forced to march to a doctor after I get the same injury?”

“Because my mother is safe,” he counters, “and you look worse than I did.”

“God, you suck at comforting people,” I complain with a laugh before leaning down to steal a kiss from already blood-smeared lips.

While Squall briefly allows the kiss, he carefully pulls away with a frozen and bare hand stroking my cheek, his glove lost at some point. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

“Is that so?” I mutter, momentarily lost in the sharpness of blue-gray eyes.

“I’m serious, Seifer. When you screamed out, everything about you was… darker.” His gaze shifting from intense thought, Squall adds, “I’ve seen how pale you get after seeing Heaven, and I was afraid…”

Surprised by the connection he had made, I ask the brunet, “Did you think Hell had gotten a hold of me?”

“It’s ridiculous, I know—“

“Ridiculous, maybe, but you weren’t wrong. You saved me from a pretty ugly situation there, Sherlock, which only makes it harder for me to pay you back. I’m starting to wonder if you’re doing it on purpose.”

Squall stares at me for a long moment for the half-joking comment, his lips slipping into a frown before he abruptly pushes up from the ground and offers me a hand. Allowing him that escape, I accept his help with a smug grin, but I lose that bit of humor when my bum leg decides to give out. Without asking, Squall moves my arm around his neck and takes his position as my crutch, and instantly I’m overwhelmed by the difference between the first time Squall served as my support and this moment right now. God, how much I hated him and his perfect life, and only Squall could make me look past that petty anger to find a man I could trust and, incredibly, love.

As we walk forward, a female paramedic rushes inside with a large first-aid kit, soon followed by another paramedic rolling a stretcher onto the factory floor. Selphie waves them over to the two boys, and that’s the moment I realize my dreams have saved another innocent life. It’s an idea that is strangely hard to accept after years of disappointment, but there the kid is, grabbing onto Sora like a lifeline as the paramedics pull the dark-haired boy onto the stretcher. Vince isn’t Zack or any of the other lives that were lost because of my failures, but that doesn’t change this fleeting sensation of relief and pride. For at least today, I think I can leave that guilt behind.

About halfway through the room, I stumble on a piece of gravel as if it was a boulder, and while Squall keeps me upright, he also treats the happenstance as proof that I need help. He tries to lead us toward the paramedics, but I continue to nudge us toward the emergency exit. Squall glares at me for being difficult, as if he hasn’t dealt with that before.

“If I have to go to the hospital, you’re taking me,” I contend. “I don’t want to be alone in that place.”

The brunet frowns, clearly wanting to ask questions, but he doesn’t while relenting and helping me outside.

Compared to the burnt shell of the chemical plant, the surrounding scenery is bright and clean with a fresh layer of snow. I watch the dance of snowflakes as they fall down, but they aren’t as perfect as they could be with my left eye covered. I let my arm drop with Squall’s shirt in hand and try to focus on the falling snow with both eyes, but the stain of blood on my eyelashes creates an ugly pinkish hue.

Reminded of my uneventful dream, I return Squall’s stained shirt to my face and take quick stock of my body. While numb and stiff in all areas, I don’t feel too damaged, which hopefully means I didn’t foresee the last minutes of my life. If nothing else, I like to imagine that my death would create a greater impact than a dream about snowflakes.

“Seifer…?” Squall prods with a hand lifted to my shoulder.

I jump slightly at his touch, but not wanting the observant man to worry, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Did you know that I love this kind of snow? My mom used to say that big flakes like these were the dresses of little fairies dancing in the air.”

Squall hums lightly. “Is there a reason I should have known that?”

“Well, you seem to know everything else about me. Just thought I should check.”

The brunet breathes a laugh and smiles, a gorgeous smile that shows a hint of perfect white teeth. “You still manage to surprise me on occasion.”

Happy and unable to bear it, I try to lean over and kiss that smile, but the angle proves to be too much and my vision snaps from hazy to narrow and dark. I feel myself slumping against Squall and I hear a bold curse from the reserved man, but my body is heavy and unresponsive as Squall slowly lowers me to the ground. In the last moment of consciousness, I feel an ice-cold hand stroke my cheek followed by the touch of large snowflakes. Not all there, I dully wonder if Squall has any connection to the winter fairies that are cold and perfect in every way…

==========================================================================

From the beauty of fresh snow, I end up staring at a ceiling with a variety of yellow and brown stains that make me disappointed in some nameless fashion. Slowly, I recognize other problems with my current situation, an important one being a lack of clothing in exchange for a backless gown that doesn’t provide any protection against scratchy sheets that have been bleached to death a few too many times. At the scent of disinfectant, I’m struck by the fleeting memory of Squall suggesting a trip to the hospital, not that I was going to actually let him take me.

With a growl of annoyance, I sit up with the intention to escape, but the fast movement causes a wave of nausea that forces me to drop back down onto the thin mattress. I press my arms against my face to block out unwanted light, the move causing my hand to brush against the thick gauze at my forehead that wasn’t there the last I remember. Right, a knife to the face. That could explain why I’m waking up in a hospital bed.

“Moron,” a voice chides, not the one I would have expected.

Peeking out from under my bent arm, I stare at the impossible image of Fuujin sitting next to my bed with a smile on her lips and a glint of humor in her single red eye. “Fuu…?”

“No moving,” she insists. “Blood loss.”

I groan at her demand. “It wasn’t that much blood, baby girl, just a cut to my face. I’ll be good to go in another minute or two.”

With a shake of her head, Fuujin points to my bum leg. “Glass.”

Surprised, I lift the bed sheet to glance at my thigh, and sure enough, a large bandage covers that area. I don’t remember my leg being injured, but with the various debris lifted by Roth’s power, I suppose it’s possible that a healthy piece of glass could have sliced my thigh and that I thought it was nothing more than my knee acting out. While annoying, hopefully it makes my blackout a little less embarrassing.

Resigned that Fuujin isn’t going to let me escape, I fold my arms behind my neck and prop my head to better talk to my apparent babysitter. “So, not that I’m complaining, but what are you doing here? It seems to me that you have more important things to do than watch over my unconscious ass.”

“Squall asked.”

I frown at the oddity of Squall calling Fuujin, but once I realize why he would have made such a request, I sigh out a complaint. “Damn it, when I told him that I didn’t want to be alone, I meant that _he_ was supposed to stay with me. I didn’t think he’d call up a surrogate.”

Fuujin shrugs, unconcerned about my deal with Squall.

“Where is he, anyway? The guy owes me something,” I say, recalling that I never got my taste of his smile before I blacked out.

With a tilt of her head, Fuujin stares at me as if I had asked a completely different question. “Things good?”

“What, between me and Squall?” At her nod, I gaze up at the ceiling while considering my answer. “I guess everything is friendly enough, but… Is it incredibly selfish of me to want more? I mean, Squall has given me a place to stay and a second chance to fix up my life, but he keeps teasing me with hints of what it’d be like to have more with him, and God help me, Fuu, I really want it. More than anything.”

When she doesn’t respond, I glance over at the white-haired woman and find her smiling in a mysterious fashion. “You think I’m idiot, don’t you? That I don’t deserve Squall and I shouldn’t interfere with his life.”

“You think that?” she asks, her smile still in place.

“Just one of many depressing thoughts, to be honest. I know I don’t have a good track record when it comes to the serious things in my life, but Squall has a way of making something incredible out of nothing, and when we’re together, I get this crazy idea that it could work between us.”

“You care,” Fuujin says with faint approval. “You don’t. Not usually.”

“That’s harsh, baby girl,” I complain with a cringe, “but I guess I don’t have much room to talk after what I did to you.”

Her red eye narrows slightly, probably from more than a few sour memories.

“Listen, I know I don’t have a leg to stand on, but I did and _do_ care about you, Fuu. You’re an amazing friend anyone can rely on, and I took advantage of that and made a mess of things. I was a drunken idiot who was too stupid realize how much I was hurting you, but I swear—“

“Enough,” Fuujin interrupts while placing her hand on my stomach. “Move forward. Be better.”

I try to smile, but it’s hard when I don’t feel like I deserve her forgiveness. I reach out a hand to hold hers, but at the last second, I notice something peeking out from her sleeve that makes me brush my fingers along her wrist instead. “You kept this?”

Fuujin smiles down at the bracelet made of braided leather. “Keeps me safe.”

With my forefinger and thumb, I play with the dark leather that I had given to Fuujin when we were in high school. She was living in a bad house back then, one with a nasty spirit that had a thing against women, especially young and cute ones. The spirit wasn’t strong enough to do any physical harm, but the thing definitely had a way of making a person feel unsafe and afraid to fall asleep. Once I figured out the cause of Fuujin’s exhaustion and bad mood, I gave her the protection charm with the story that I had bought it from a crazy old palm reader who swore it would keep Fuujin safe.

Fuujin humored me by wearing the bracelet, and then continued to wear it when she was able to get restful sleep again. Even so, I would have bet good money on her tossing the thing after the ugly breakup of our friendship, but here it is, and amazingly, the magic has thrived. Being such a simple spell, it would have faded away years ago if she didn’t somewhat believe in the magic that keeps her safe. I know it doesn’t mean she trusts me, but it’s enough for her to believe in my intentions.

A light knock sounds, and at my distracted call to enter, Squall opens the door to stand at the threshold without entering. My heart does a funny jump at the sight of him, his gauze removed to show the stitched flesh crossing over the bridge of his nose. Nothing else is visibly wrong with him, but I know that his chest is burnt and hurting beneath his sweater, all because of my protection charm and his persistent ambition to keep me alive.

“You’re awake,” he states in a neutral tone.

“So I noticed, Sherlock. The real issue is why you weren’t here with me, waiting for me to wake up.”

Squall frowns at my childish complaint. “Someone had to give the police a report, and you were unconscious.”

Annoyed at his perfectly sensible response, I mutter a curse before conceding, “Fine, since you have an answer for everything, where did my pants go? I want to go home before something else happens to knock me on my ass.”

Squall shows a lightly scolding glare before turning to someone in the hallway, and with a beckoning hand, he takes a step back to allow a head of spiky brown hair to peek into my room.

I grin at the sight of Riku’s little not-yet-boyfriend. “Well shit, if it isn’t the munchkin. How are you doing, kid?”

“Better than when you found me,” Sora replies when stepping fully into view, the sight of him making me wish that we had found him faster. His smile is lopsided as medical tape holds together the split skin caused by a fist to his face. A white bandage stands out against his forehead, the rest of the white material hidden beneath his shaggy hair. Some kind of brace covers his right wrist, not that I recall it being injured. All in all, I have to give the kid credit for not losing his smile.

“Um, I’m glad that you didn’t leave yet,” Sora starts with a shift of his footing and an unsubtle glance at Fuujin. “I wanted to let you know that I won’t say anything to anyone about what happened. I mean, besides telling the police about how you and Squall saved me and Vince. I owe you guys, so you can trust me to keep your secret.”

Startled by the teen’s topic of choice, I can only stare while coming to terms with the idea that Sora had a front row seat for my battle against Roth. More worrisome is that he’s unafraid to admit it. Most people live in denial when they witness the impossible, usually making up a story that explains everything in rational terms, but not this kid. Upfront, honest, and fearless… I have to assume Riku is going to have his hands full once he admits his feelings for his small friend.

Squall gives me a look, reminding me that I haven’t said anything yet. Rubbing the back of my neck, I tell the munchkin, “I appreciate the thought, but honestly, whether you tell people or not, I won’t regret my choice to help you out. You’re a good kid, and if I hadn’t done something, your boyfriend would’ve had my head.”

Still shifting on his feet, Sora inches forward. “Then, if you don’t mind, can I visit sometime and talk about what happened? Maybe… with Riku?”

While I don’t care for talking about my curse, it’d probably be better to give Sora the full details instead of letting him make up his own answers. I also can’t prevent a smirk when I’m struck by the vision of the silver-haired teen scowling at my every word when it comes to ghosts and dreams of the future. “Let’s plan on it.”

Sora smiles broadly at the reply, stretching the medical tape to its limit. “Thanks!”

“All right, stop corrupting my witness,” a voice announces before Selphie appears in the doorway. Stepping behind Sora, she places her hands at his shoulders and leans close to his ear. “Be careful around this guy, cutie. He lies and can’t be trusted.”

“Now, wait a minute,” I argue with a finger pointed at Squall, “I’d like to see you control him when he gets an idea stuck in his head. It was either sit back and let him get killed, or tag along for the ride.”

Selphie grins, clearly knowing how difficult the brunet can be, but she doesn’t give me any leeway. “Next time put a collar on him.”

“And get strangled by the leash? Not happening in your lifetime, girlie.”

The woman laughs in delight, and squeezing Sora’s shoulders, she announces, “Okay, cutie, I have a patrol car ready to take you home. Do you have all of your stuff?”

“Yeah, but…” With a pained gleam to bright blue eyes, Sora looks back at the detective. “What’s going to happen to Cloud? I know he hurt people, but I don’t think he meant to do what he did. He seemed really confused and… At one point, he asked me to help him.”

Her smile tempered, Selphie says encouragingly, “We’re doing what we can for him. Actually, just a few minutes ago, Squall called up an amazing lawyer and convinced her to take his case. If things go well, Michael will get the help he needs,” Selphie assures, and then adds, “Between you and me, though, I think he’s also going to need a friend or two to pull him through this.”

His brow furrows in momentary conflict before Sora nods. “I want to see him again.”

“Good for you,” Selphie says with a kiss to Sora’s forehead. “Now, where’s home?”

Before the munchkin can reluctantly answer, I speak up for the dense teen, “1108 Oceanic Ave and don’t spare the horses getting him there.”

At first surprised, Sora soon smiles in a very dumb and obvious fashion. “Yeah, that’s it, and I can show the way once we get close. Thanks for everything!” he says, suddenly in a rush to be out of this place. Sora waves before he slips past Selphie and darts into the hallway, a uniformed police officer hurrying past the doorway to chase after the young teen.

Waving back, Selphie quietly surmises, “That wasn’t his address, was it?”

“It’s close enough,” Squall defends. He then reaches into his pocket for his cell phone. “I have a call to make.”

I grin with the knowledge that Squall wants to warn Riku about his returning friend and about the little lie concerning Sora’s living situation. Squall steps out into the hallway, the brunet never moving farther than the single step inside, but I don’t have much of a chance to dwell on why he didn’t come to my side.

“ _Fuujin_ _?_ ” Selphie squeals in delight. “I didn’t see you there with Squall in the way. What are you doing here?” she asks while rushing inside and wrapping her arms around the quiet woman.

Surprisingly smiling at the hug, Fuujin replies, “Watching Seifer.”

“What, this guy? Did Squall talk you into it or something?” Selphie asks with honest confusion. “That’s foul play, even for Squall.”

“Old friend,” Fuujin corrects.

“Oh, that’s right, all of you went to the same school or something,” Selphie reasons, and then promptly dismisses the issue to move next to Fuujin. “Wow, you’ve gotten so big since I saw you last. Please, _please_ , can I listen to the little kung-fu master?”

With an indulging look, Fuujin nods her permission.

Kneeling, Selphie presses her ear against Fuujin’s pregnant belly and smiles broadly with excitement. “Man, I want at least ten of these things. I’m so jealous that you and Zell are getting a head start on me.”

My head swimming from the sight of Fuujin allowing someone to be that touchy around her, I’m forced to point out, “You two seem to know each other pretty well.”

“Well, of course,” Selphie says. “Fuujin and Zell let me stay with them for over a year after Squall saved me. We’re like soul sisters.”

When I show little more than a blank stare at the information, Fuujin places a hand on top of Selphie’s head and announces, “Number five.”

It takes a moment to catch onto her meaning. “Wait, _she’s_ one of Squall’s ‘investments’?”

“You didn’t know about how Squall helped me?” Selphie asks in surprise. “I swore he would’ve told you all about that during your after-sex talks. I’ve heard he’s pretty chatty after a couple rounds.”

Caught off guard, I choke and cough at her openness. “For the record, and before Squall kills me, we haven’t explored that part of the relationship yet. He also has a thing about respecting other people’s privacy,” I add as a subtle reminder to the detective.

Pouting, Selphie moves into a straighter pose. “But you guys were all over each other when we showed up. Surely there’s _something_ happening between you two.”

And apparently subtlety doesn’t work with this girl. While I struggle with how to handle this woman, Fuujin leans over and whispers something into Selphie’s ear. Green eyes widening, Selphie stares at me and her lips form a silent “oh” at whatever Fuujin tells her. To increase my stress level, Selphie giggles quietly as Fuujin pulls away, and they share a conspiring look that women do so well.

“Care to share your insight, Fuu?” I ask in a low voice, not that Fuujin was ever threatened by me.

Selphie waves off my question. “Nothing to worry about, Handsome. But hey, Squall really didn’t say anything about me? I told him that he needs to be less creepy when he’s offering his help to someone and that he could use my situation as an example. People don’t go to extremes like he does, at least not without some kind of end game.”

“Tell me about it,” I mutter, holding those exact thoughts when Squall first offered his spare room. “So, what did Squall do for you? Buy you a house or a pony or something?”

Selphie frowns at my sarcasm. “No, he saved my life.”

Taken aback, I rub my forehead while trying to avoid the taped gauze. “Shit, I didn’t—“

“You’re obviously tired,” Selphie says, “so I’ll forgive you this time, but remember that I owe Squall everything and I’ll always take his side, even if you’re in the right.”

“I deserve that,” I say in acceptance of her devotion to the brunet, something I’ve already witnessed from Fuujin. “But now that you’ve said it, would I be a complete ass if I tried again and asked about what Squall did to help you? The guy doesn’t like talking about his own heroics, you know.”

Selphie eyes me cautiously, trying to determine my sincerity before she relents, “I suppose I can give you the short version, but I want the courtesy returned. If you ever, and I mean _ever_ have something to tell me, I don’t want you to hesitate.”

“I might be able to do that, but you know that Squall comes first,” I counteroffer, all too eager to use Squall as an excuse whenever he decides that my foreseeing dreams are something he can handle without the interference of the police.

Pink lips twitch as Selphie resists a smile at my move to turn the tables on her by invoking Squall’s name, but she quickly loses her humor when her thoughts move to the past. “One of these days, if you’re still around, I’ll tell you the whole story. For now, all you need to know is that I had a stepfather who was an amazing cop, but abusive. My mother took the brunt of it, but as you can imagine, I have quite the mouth on me.”

Fuujin places a hand at Selphie’s shoulder and squeezes lightly. “Not deserved.”

“I knew that, Fuujin, but there was no one we could go to,” Selphie says with a sad smile at the red-eyed woman. “I escaped my stepfather by going to college and then onto the police academy. After years of nagging, I convinced my mother to find help at a women’s shelter with a wonderful reputation, but stupidly, I didn’t think about needing protection myself. One late night, my stepfather waited for me at the entrance to my apartment building and pushed me into a nearby alleyway. He had a baseball bat and I had a gun, but I couldn’t… It was like I was a little girl again.”

I frown at her description, knowing exactly how it feels to be powerless in front of a father-figure, and I didn’t go through the years of physical abuse that Selphie had. While I wish I could relay that to the detective, I hold my tongue as she continues her story with a haunted look to her usually vibrant eyes.

“He demanded to know where my mother was, and when I didn’t answer, he broke my arm and some ribs. I eventually realized that it wouldn’t matter if I told him about my mother or not—he was going to kill me for betraying him. I stopped fighting and waited for my fate when, without a sound, someone grabbed the bastard and shoved him face first into a brick wall. I watched in amazement as that stranger took the bat from my stepfather’s hand and rammed the end into his back, hitting the sweet spot to make my stepfather piss his own pants.

“And that’s how I met Squall Loire,” Selphie states with the reverence of someone who knows her life is owed to one person’s interference. “He was chasing down a bounty in the area, but set that aside to help me, and he didn’t stop there. Squall held my hand while we waited for the police to arrive and sat next to my bed at the hospital. I told him everything and admitted that I was terrified of going home. It didn’t matter that my stepfather was in police custody—if he got out on bail or somehow used his contacts, he would’ve been able to find me there. That’s when Squall sent me to Fuujin and Zell”

Selphie wraps her hand around Fuujin’s and looks up at the quiet woman. “I didn’t mean to live with them as long as I did, but during that time, they taught me advanced self-defense techniques and helped me to build up my confidence. And when I started to doubt myself, Squall convinced me to become a detective in spite of my stepfather. I really don’t know where I’d be without their help.”

“I understand the sentiment,” I say, uncertain of my own limited future if Squall hadn’t found me when he did. “But hey, you became the person you always wanted to be, and I imagine there are a lot of kids who are pretty darn thankful of that.”

Green eyes soft, Selphie rests a hand over mine. “You’ll get there, too, Handsome. I have faith in you.”

The faces of Zack, Xu, and Nida flash through my head, defeating her attempt to reassure me. “I have a little bit further to go than you did, gunslinger.”

“Not as far as you think,” another voice joins in, encouraging the three of us to glance up at Squall’s unnoticed reappearance. Like before, he stands at the doorway without moving closer, but he has somehow gained a shopping bag during his absence. It’s a confusing sight when he was only supposed to make a phone call, but before I can ask anything, Fuujin stands up from her chair.

“Should go,” Fuujin announces, and with a hand to my shoulder, she leans down to tell me, “Make Squall happy. Find happiness.”

At her unexpected permission, I smile up at the beautiful woman. “I’ll do what I can, Fuu.”

“I’m gone, too,” Selphie says while pushing up from the floor. “Reports have a tendency to breed if you don’t handle them right away. I’ll be checking up on you two, though, so don’t think for a _second_ that you’re in the free and clear about that mess today. Next time, just wait for me, okay?”

“Don’t tell me,” I argue with hands raised in surrender. “Tell it to the guy who made me chase after him.”

“But he’s not the one who’s afraid of me,” Selphie points out, her smile edging on seductive in its smugness. “See you boys later, and remember, no rough sex until after all of your wounds have healed.”

While I grin at her advice, Squall shows an expression that most would call unreadable, except there’s a small detail of his thumbnail digging into the handle of his mystery shopping bag. Selphie taps his nose with her finger, and after an exaggerated wink, she hurries after Fuujin down the hallway, calling out her name and demanding for something that sounds a lot like a date. Sighing, Squall closes the door behind him and leans against the solid support.

“You okay there, Sherlock?”

Squall scoffs at the question. “You’re the one in a hospital bed.”

I shrug at the technicality. “It wasn’t my first choice, but that’s what I get for passing out. At least you were smart enough to have Fuujin watch over me. It turns out that she’s still wearing a charm I gave her years ago, which means I didn’t have any unwanted visitors…” Saying it out loud, I suddenly realize, “And you somehow knew having Fuujin here would protect me.”

“I assumed,” Squall corrects. “She mentioned that you gave her a bracelet to keep her safe.”

“Right, well, do me a favor and don’t tell Fuujin any details, especially when it comes to the ghosts and demons out there. She has a kid on the way, and the last thing she needs is something else to worry about.”

“Is there a reason why she doesn’t already know?” Squall asks, always going straight for the hard questions.

“If you haven’t noticed, I don’t usually tell people about what I see. You’re the only real exception, and it doesn’t help that I’ve been forced to tell everyone in your extended family about my visions to keep from being locked up in an insane asylum or killed in a remote location.”

Full lips curl into a slight, knowing smile. “Speaking of which, Ward brought you some fresh clothes,” he says while lifting the shopping bag.

“No shit? Does that mean I can get out of here?”

“After the doctor checks you over,” Squall warns. “Although, he did say that you can get dressed, as long as you feel well enough.”

“Well, come over here and give me those clothes. It’s too cold in here for me to dance around half-naked, no matter how much you may enjoy the sight.”

Squall stares for a second too long before he takes a step forward, his stride stiff and reluctant with every footfall. It’s not exactly the “get better soon” attention I was expecting from the dark-haired beauty, and when he tries to put the shopping bag at the very end of the bed, I’ve had more than enough. Ignoring my leg’s complaint, I lunge forward and grab Squall’s wrist before he can retreat.

“Whatever game you’re at, I don’t want to play it,” I say, my voice rough with building anger.

Stormy eyes focused on my hand, Squall comments distractedly, “You’re warm…”

“And you’re being cold,” I lash back. “I thought we were finally on the edge of something good, and now you’re acting like—“

“Seifer,” Squall interrupts softly, and with my tongue momentarily tamed, he places his free hand at my cheek. As if wiping something off, he rubs his thumb over my flushed skin while careful enough to not disturb the fresh gauze. “You were frozen when I touched you last,” Squall says in a hushed voice. “I thought, maybe… that Roth did something to you.”

“He tried to, but you stopped him, remember?” I say with a hand lightly held to his chest. “Speaking of which, did you have a doctor check you out? Those burns looked painful.”

He carefully shifts away from my touch, even as he claims, “They don’t hurt.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Sherlock.”

“Am I?” he asks softly.

Assuming he means the years he hid his feelings from me, I smirk and lean in close. “You’ve let me in, Squally-boy, and I’ve learned your tricks. Don’t think that I’m going to be easily fooled again.”

Our resulting kiss is feather light and disappointingly brief, Squall allowing nothing more despite the quiver of his hand against my cheek and his body arching toward me in a wholly seductive manner. Carefully pulling away, Squall bows his head such that his dark hair covers his eyes, efficiently hiding the burn of blue-gray I glimpsed before his retreat. Such a beautiful cock tease, but lucky for him, I don’t think the hospital scene is the appropriate ambiance for experimenting with a new lover, especially if visiting hours get in the way.

“I’ll get the doctor while you dress,” Squall says.

“And then you’ll take me home?” I question with an ambitious grin.

Full lips lift into an indulging curl when Squall replies, “Then we’ll go home.”

I watch the brunet leave the room, itching to chase after him despite my half-clothed state and partial erection. Motivated to put on clothes before I embarrass myself, I reach into the shopping bag and pull out a shirt, the sight of which instantly making me groan. I don’t know what I was thinking, maybe that Ward had a spare key to Squall’s place or some other access to my clothes, but while the old man couldn’t get at my closet, he didn’t have to give me the exact shirt and pants I had borrowed weeks ago without his direct permission. Obviously it’s going to be a long time coming before Ward decides to trust me again.

In the meantime, I need to figure out how in the world I’m going to be able to seduce Squall while dressed in his godfather’s clothing, let alone a bowling-style shirt that almost reaches my knees. At least the pants will be easy enough to remove…

“Well played, old man,” I mutter while removing my hospital gown and chucking it across the room. “Well fucking played.”


	9. Chapter 9

[Squall]

“Be careful driving out there,” a shivering nurse states from the open car door, her scrubs doing very little to keep out the frigid air. “It has been snowing all day, so the roads are pretty nasty.”

Unable to leave any woman untouched by his innate charm, Seifer replies with a flirtatious smile. “Thanks for the warning, but blizzard or fire storm, I trust Squall here with my life.”

Showing a slight frown, the nurse glances over at me. “Oh… Well, I’m glad that you have someone to take you home.”

“Me, too,” Seifer says, his gaze also moved to my face. The man looks pathetic with the gauze between his eyes, the healing bruises at his neck, and the variety of injuries hidden beneath his jacket and borrowed clothes. Even so, his smile doesn’t show a hint of the pain he must be feeling, the idiot refusing pain medication with the complaint that they mess with his already irregular sleep.

Not looking back at the nurse, Seifer tells her, “We should be going. Big plans for the night and all.”

Sighing in defeat, the woman closes the passenger door and promptly wraps her arms over her chest before walking briskly to the hospital entrance.

With no other hindrances, I pull the jeep forward onto icy asphalt and exhale a relieved breath at the idea that we’re finally going home. Falling snow shines within the headlights, a soothing display that seems to capture Seifer’s attention while he slumps down into his seat and shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his torn jacket. Silence reins while the hospital slowly slips out of view, but I know that it won’t last, not when Seifer has the look of someone who has a difficult thing to ask.

Two blocks later, a police car with its lights flashing but its sirens silent speeds down the other side of the street, the sight of which drawing a shaky breath from Seifer. He grabs onto his seatbelt and fidgets under the restraint before he finally asks his questions.

“I’ve been wanting to know, but with everyone else around… By any chance, did that detective friend of yours say anything about why Strife went after those kids? Or about what happened to Zack?”

“Selphie couldn’t tell me everything, but it seems Zack tried to confront Cloud about the steroid abuse Riku had mentioned. Cloud was probably angry, fueled by drugs he couldn’t handle, and terrified about being left behind. I doubt he meant to kill Zack, not when he was so desperate to bring him back.”

“What does that even mean, ‘to bring him back’? Hasn’t Zack been dead ever since people noticed he was missing?”

“I assume so, but Roth, or the angel ‘Sephiroth’ as Cloud continues to call him, convinced Cloud that Zack could be resurrected. Selphie said it was some kind of ritual that required replacing a child’s soul with Zack’s lost spirit…” I sigh in frustration at the lies told to the impressionable and confused teen. “Roth twisted Cloud’s grief into something ugly, and I assume Roth enjoyed every minute of it.”

Seifer presses a hand to his forehead and curses under his breath. “That stupid kid, I’ll bet no one ever told him to not listen to ghosts, especially ones with wings.”

I glance at the blond, curious what kind of history has lead him to that lesson.

“What’s in store for him now?” Seifer asks, his fingers raking back through his hair in a frustrated claw. “That lady detective said something about a lawyer, right?”

“Quistis Trepe,” I reply. “She owes me a few favors and rarely refuses a chance to defend a minor. She met with Cloud a couple hours ago and unsurprisingly thinks it’s a pretty solid insanity plea.”

A bitter laugh leaves the blond. “In other words, the poor fucker is going to get thrown into a mental institution because no one will believe him when he’ll insist that an angel spoke to him and gave him instructions that lead to those kids’ deaths.”

“Isn’t the alternative worse?”

Seifer sighs and admits, “I honestly have no clue.”

Stopping at a red light, I’m able to turn my attention to the struggling man. Given their similar abilities, it isn’t surprising that Seifer has put himself into Cloud’s position, but I can’t tell if Seifer thinks he would have been stronger than the foster kid. Without his mother’s example and the stern upbringing of his grandfather, I imagine Seifer would have been easy prey to any malicious ghost that had crossed his path over the years, specifically his father. However, Seifer did have those important influences in his life, and I refuse to believe that any ghost could convince him to kill an innocent victim.

“I’ve been on that edge, you know,” Seifer says quietly, arguing against my unvoiced thoughts. “While you can close a door on a human, the same can’t be done to a ghost, and if they talk long enough, it becomes harder and harder to doubt whatever shit they decide to tell you. Even it’s something you always swore you’d never do.”

“You’re better than that,” I insist.

With a weak smile, Seifer meets my gaze. “Maybe, but only when I have a reason to be better.”

The light turns green, giving me a good excuse to turn away and focus on the road again.

Another block passes in silence when Seifer asks, “This lawyer, you said she owed you. Does that mean she’s another one of your investments?”

“…I don’t like that term.”

“In other words, she’s either number two or four,” Seifer presumes with a smirk in his voice. “So what did you do for her that she’s willing to take on a fucked up kid as a client?”

I briefly glance at the blond, frowning in a reminder that I don’t like sharing other people’s secrets.

“Come on, Loire, I’m not asking about every little detail of that lawyer’s life, just the portion of her life that involves you,” Seifer tries to reason. “Can you blame me for wanting to know about the great things you’ve done in your life?”

“It’s not that great. I’ve helped some people when they’ve needed it.”

“See, now you’re being insulting. You do more than ‘help,’ Squall—you give second chances, and you do it right when a person might think there are no other options.”

I shrug at his melodramatic rephrasing of the word “help.”

“Tell me about the lawyer,” Seifer insists in a serious voice. “It’d be nice to know about the woman who holds that kid’s life in her hands.”

By his tone, I recognize that Seifer needs some answers before he can find any peace with this situation. While I can’t share too many details with the blond, I reluctantly decide that the basics shouldn’t cause too much harm, especially if it helps Seifer to trust Quistis. After all, given our adventures thus far due to Seifer’s visions, there’s no telling what other situation may arise in which a lawyer could be useful.

“I did some jobs for a divorce lawyer years back,” I explain. “He was scum, but skilled at what he did and willing to pay good money for my services. Quistis was his paralegal and a dropout from law school. It was an obvious waste of talent, so I offered to help with her expenses if she would finish her degree. She eventually agreed, but stubbornly took on her own student loans.”

“Wait a second there, why did she drop out of law school in the first place? If you think she’s talented, then she must have been top of her class or some shit like that, which means she should have been able to get scholarships. Did she really need your money that badly?”

“She did have scholarships back in the day,” I admit, “and then she had a daughter.”

After a pause of surprise, Seifer hums in disappointment. “Let me guess—the father disappeared into the wind once she started to show?”

“More or less,” I reply although I know the full truth that Quistis had an ill-advised affair with a professor at her original university. She was in love with him, and his response was to give her money for an abortion. It was a cliché tale that rarely has a happy ending, but at least Quistis was strong enough to realize that her love didn’t have the future she thought it did.

“Damn, and she’s doing the lawyer thing while doing the single mom thing, too?”

“As I said, she’s talented,” I remind the blond. “Cloud is in good hands.”

“But she graduated, what, a couple years ago? Doesn’t that make her pretty inexperienced for a case like his? Murdered children and all…” Seifer murmurs, trying his best to be concerned without also insulting my choice in a lawyer.

“She knows her limits. If the case goes to trial, she’ll solicit the necessary help.”

Seifer snorts at the response, but reluctantly concedes, “If you think she can do it, then I’ll trust your judgment. You do have a frightening way of being right all of the time.”

I make a sound as if I actually needed his approval.

Shifting in his seat, Seifer tries to look casual when he asks, “So, this Quisty or whatever—is she on that phone of yours, too?”

“She is,” I reply with a held back smile at his failed subtlety, “but that isn’t your real question.”

Seifer grumbles at being called out. “Alright, I’m not going to say that I lived through everything today to figure out what fake name you gave me, but since I am alive, can you blame me for being curious? And you did say that you’d tell me.”

I hum in recognition of that promise. “If you must know, your number is under ‘Canis Lupus’.”

“’Canis Lupus’…? What the hell is that, a video game character?” Seifer asks, disappointment sounding in his voice. Knowing the blond, he probably expected something more revealing of my feelings for him or else something that would stroke his already inflated ego.

“It’s the Latin name for ‘wolf’.”

“’Wolf’?” Seifer repeats with a little more interest. “And what did I do to earn that?”

“Nothing in particular,” I say, resisting the response that I’ve been comparing to him to a stray wolf ever since he reentered my life.

“Right, because that’s an obvious name to give someone at random,” Seifer argues. “What’s the real reason, Sherlock?”

I glance at the blond to show that I heard his question, but that I have no intention to give him a different answer.

Sighing out a breath, Seifer leans back into his seat. “You’re a hard one to figure out, Squall, but I’ll get there one of these days. Just wait and see.”

My hands tighten at the steering wheel when I realize just how much Seifer already knows: my fears associated to my mother’s failing mind, my questionable life whenever I play the role of “Leon,” and worse of all, my senseless love for Seifer that refuses to give me peace. Aside from my family, no one else has invaded my life so thoroughly, and to make events even stranger, I was the one to drag Seifer into it. I took him to my mother, I brought him with me on business, and I revealed my feelings under the guise of a lie. I did all of those things without consideration of the consequences, which means that I’ll only have myself to blame when Seifer realizes that his supposed love for me isn’t anything more than confused gratitude.

~ > < ~

“This brings back fond memories,” Seifer states, his voice light with laughter.

“If you say so,” I mutter under my breath, knowing the truth that Seifer wasn’t particularly pleased with needing my help the first time I brought him to my home. He had been stiff and wary with every step upward, his eyes shifting beneath shaggy blond hair while his hand clutched onto my shoulder in a nervous twitch. I remember being irritated by his obvious distrust toward my intentions, but I also couldn’t blame him after everything else he went through in that day.

In contrast to that point in time, Seifer now drapes a relaxed arm over my shoulders and presses his body close to mine such that his heat is easily felt. His verdant gaze is sharp and obvious while he focuses on my face more than the steps in front of him, causing at least one precarious stumble as we climb the three levels of stairs. I probably should scold him for that, but like many times before, I’m weak when trapped under his gaze.

“It’s hard to believe it has only been a few weeks since I first let you bring me here,” Seifer continues to ramble. “Maybe it’s because of our history or something, but it feels like it has been longer than that.”

My free hand lifts to the necklace hidden beneath my sweater. “A lot has happened,” I comment softly.

“That it has,” Seifer agrees, his hot breath suddenly felt against my ear, “and there’s more to come, yes?”

I can’t stop the shiver of my body, and then immediately regret that uncontrolled response when Seifer’s smile broadens. “Were you not listening to the doctor when he said to take it easy?”

“I heard him just fine, Sherlock, but if he knew about how long I’ve waited for tonight, he would have given me a prescription for one of those little blue pills, just in case I don’t have enough blood to keep it up.”

“And that’s supposed to convince me to let you have your way?”

“I seem to recall letting you have _your_ way when you were cut up and suffering from blood loss.”

I snort at his argument while reaching for my keys. “You’re talking about sex, Seifer. Don’t compare that to my mother’s life.”

Seifer grabs my wrist before I can place a key into the lock, the strength of his hold encouraging me to look at his abruptly serious expression. “This isn’t just about sex. I made that assumption when it came to my dreams, and I’m not going to make the same mistake again.”

A mix of emotions fills my chest at his repeated mention of those dreams, and with a sharp twist of my arm, I break free of his grasp. Unlocking the door, I knock aside Seifer’s arm from my shoulder and step inside while the unbalanced blond is forced to grab onto the door frame. I reach the kitchen island before I remove my jacket and bend down to unlace my boots. With an annoyed sigh, Seifer closes the door and switches on the lights to the front room, causing me to wince from the sudden glare.

“You have a good home, Squall,” Seifer murmurs, his soft voice encouraging me to glance at the blond. His hand lifted and glove removed, Seifer focuses on the small cuts covering his pale skin. “It’s certainly more doting than you have been.”

Uncertain what he sees or why he feels obligated to mention it, I return to unlacing my boots. “If you’re hungry, I can make you something,” I suggest, vaguely hoping that it’ll satisfy his need for attention.

Seifer hums at the offer, but ignores it to ask something far more complicated. “Why does it make you angry whenever I talk about those dreams?”

Standing up, I kick aside my boots and cross my arms over my chest, but I don’t have an easy answer for Seifer. I’ve disliked the idea of those dreams since the beginning, and it’s frustrating how Seifer continues to bring up their existence as if I’m supposed to be comforted by his glimpses into a future that repeatedly haven’t come to pass. The idiot probably hasn’t considered that this might be another doomed meeting between us. At the best, his dreams have shown a night of sex that constantly leads to nothing. At the worst….

“Do you still think that I’m confused about what I’ve seen?” Seifer questions with a careful step forward. “Or do you think I’m making it up as a cheap way to trick you into bed?”

A snort of laughter escapes me. “You aren’t that pathetic.”

“Then it’s because you think I’m wrong,” Seifer reasons, stopping a short distance in front of me.

Against better sense, I glance up at his face and see the desperate gleam in his eyes. “What am I supposed do, Seifer? Be grateful that you were able to enjoy a few wet dreams and ignore the fact that you didn’t once consider that they were true futures, let alone one with a man?”

“I’ve already told you that they were more than wet dreams,” Seifer insists defensively. “They were important to me.”

“That’s right, they were relationships we never had,” I repeat from what stories he has told me, “and because I didn’t confess my feelings, you went down the wrong path.”

Green eyes widen at my accusation. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You told me that things could have been different if you had known about my feelings, which I assume means that it’s my fault nothing happen between us and that you had a difficult life as a result.”

His glare abruptly cold, Seifer lashes out to grab the front of my sweater and jerks me close. “I never _have_ and never _will_ blame you for my fuck ups, you arrogant piece of shit. I’m the one who took the wrong step and fell down a hill that was too steep. I couldn’t stand up again without help, and that’s when you came in.”

“And I helped you, but you continue to bring up those dreams,” I say in an even, controlled tone, knowing that it should only anger Seifer further. “Is that what you want from me? Nights of sex that don’t result in something more complicated?”

“Wha—Where the hell is this coming from?” Seifer demands with the tightening of his fist at my sweater. “You should know damned well that I first mentioned those dreams because you were stuck on the dumbass assumption that I’m too straight to ever want a man. I was trying to _prove_ something to you, Sherlock, but you keep backing away. Honestly, I’m getting to the point where I have to wonder if you’re actually interested in me or if you’re just fucking with me because you find it entertaining.”

I briefly close my eyes at his accusation and my mind instantly goes back to when Seifer struggled against Roth. From the moment he stood between me and that ghost, Seifer was covered in the white energy that immediately draws my eye. It was normal at first, no more impressive than when Seifer fought against his father, but as the fight continued, something changed. I was cutting Sora free from his bindings when his quiet gasp made me turn and stare in amazement at the pure energy that poured from Seifer’s back. The white light reached high toward the ceiling, taking the shape of thin, crude wings that both contradicted against Seifer’s nature and yet suited him so amazingly well. Seifer was beautiful in every meaning of the word, and my heart froze when that pure light flickered and turned black, making me run toward Seifer in a mindless effort to save him…

“I want you,” I say within a breath, opening my eyes as I’m forced to deal with the reminder that I almost lost him today.

“Then why continue to fight me?” Seifer asks, his hand moving to my neck in a strong grasp with his thumb rubbing against the mark he gave me last night. “What happened to living the best day in your life?”

I shake my head in a slight motion. “You already gave me everything today.”

“Not everything,” Seifer insists. “There’s still a whole night ahead of us.”

“You indulged me this morning, and then defeated Roth just like you promised. We’re even now. The clothes, food, living expenses… Don’t worry about any of that.”

“You little…” Not finishing his insult, Seifer searches my face in thought and then asks, “What if that isn’t the debt I want repaid?”

I frown, not recalling any other debt between us. I did owe him for saving my mother back in high school, but we had agreed his rent was free for that reason. At least, I had agreed to the idea and Seifer didn’t really argue. Then perhaps he means how I got him the job at Ward’s, but that was the obvious option to help Seifer repay me financially. No, there isn’t another significant debt that should concern Seifer, which means the idiot must have another objective in mind…

“Things like money and clothes are easy to pay off, and I’ll get there one of these days,” Seifer explains in a low, enticing voice. “Instead, since you won’t finish your day, give me one night with you and make it the best night I’ve ever known. Then I might consider us even.”

“Figures,” I murmur under my breath, reluctantly impressed by the lengths the arrogant blond is willing to go to make a point. In a clearer voice, I say from exhaustion, “Enough, Seifer. You don’t have to do this because you think it’s what I want or because you feel responsible.”

His annoyed frown slowly lifts into a determined smirk. “That’s cute, Squally-boy, but I’m not the honorable white knight you seem to think I am.”

With that as his warning, Seifer forces a hard kiss that shoves me back against the counter and encourages me to grab onto the larger man’s jacket to maintain my balance. His fingers massage firmly at my neck, the rough skin causing a groan to build in my chest. Hearing that sound, Seifer drags his tongue over my lower lip in the demand for a deeper kiss, something I can’t refuse when his free hand moves lower and he grabs my ass such that his thumb is felt just above my hole. I wasn’t going to let it go this far tonight, maybe not ever, and my fingernails dig into his jacket as I imagine making both Seifer and his flesh pay for causing me to lose control like this.

A self-satisfied hum sounds from Seifer just before he leans back for some unknown purpose, his plan ruined when his injured leg abruptly gives out under his weight. My hold on his jacket keeps the blond from landing too hard on the wood floor, but Seifer still curses in pain when he ultimately slumps into a kneeling position.

“Fucking Hell, it’s like something out there doesn’t want me to have my way with you.”

My breaths ragged, I stare down at tousled golden hair and recognize that I could easily step away at this point. I could avoid the chance of heartbreak, or worse, the possibly of Seifer deciding to endure my desires as further repayment for my help… but when I release my hold on his jacket, Seifer looks up in a sharp motion. His eyes burn with a feral light, and even though we’re no longer touching, I can feel the heat of Seifer’s hands on my skin and the caress of his breath at my ear.

Unable to look away, I decide that I have to know. What Seifer looks like when lost in sex, what he’ll do the morning after, what he’ll do in the days and weeks after that… Whatever the result, I have to know the future and whether or not it includes this impossible man.

A confident smile crossing his lips, Seifer lifts up a requesting hand. “What do you say, Squall? Shall we continue this somewhere more comfortable?”

I place my hand under his forearm and pull the larger man to his feet, Seifer groaning in pure exaggeration before he slumps against me. His arm feels heavy and hot at my shoulders as we move to my bedroom, the short walk made difficult when Seifer becomes interested in my ear. I pull away when we reach the bed, intending to let Seifer drop down onto the mattress, but he abruptly turns to stand in front of me. His expression is serious and bold when his hands slide down my sides to the edge of my sweater. His rough fingers stroke my skin while he slowly removes the layer of clothing, his eyes focused on mine until the very last moment of the fabric moving over my head.

Before the sweater hits the ground, Seifer bends down to press a feather light kiss against the side of the arched burns covering my chest, and I gasp at the immediate effect of his touch. The burns don’t really hurt, not when his necklace soothes away the pain it had caused, but it’s different when Seifer touches them. It feels like a current of electricity running under my skin, reaching a place that is strange and secret and shouldn’t be touched by someone as reckless as Seifer. I try to pull away from the wholly alien sensation, but my retreat causes Seifer to clutch my shoulders in a forceful grasp.

“I thought these didn’t hurt,” Seifer says with a sly glance of green.

“They don’t…” I argue, still trying to find my breath and failing when Seifer presses another kiss at the rim of dark red burns.

“You can barely talk and you expect me to believe your word?” he asks in disbelief. Hooking a finger around my necklace, Seifer jerks on the chain. “Let me make you something else. Something that won’t leave scars the next time you need protection.”

“Don’t even try,” I refuse as I grab his hand before he can attempt to remove the necklace. “This is mine.”

Seifer fights against a pleased smile. “While I appreciate the thought, it’d be best to make you something smaller—“

“It’s not painful,” I interrupt when Seifer seems ready to push the point. “It’s… different than that.”

“Different? What kind of different are you talking about? Because from where I’m standing, I can only see burns in the shape of that damned necklace.”

I frown at his narrow-minded focus. “Is that truly all you can see?”

Seifer blinks in a confused moment, but he doesn’t disappoint when green eyes abruptly glance downward. An eyebrow arcing away from the gauze at his face, Seifer comments, “Okay, unless you have a major thing for pain, I guess it’s not as bad as I thought.”

I lift my free hand to his chin and encourage the blond to stop staring at my erection. “I’m not a fragile thing to be handled with care, and it would be best if you remembered that.”

“Trust me, that’s something I’ll never forget,” Seifer says as he gently grasps my raised hand and kisses bruised knuckles, the skin split from punching Cloud one too many times. “But when there’s a choice that includes you being left unharmed, I don’t understand why you’d choose the option that has burned you twice, possibly scarring you for life.”

I tighten my other hand and weave my fingers between Seifer’s to reach the warm silver held in his hand. “Because… it protected me with your magic.”

“So it did,” Seifer murmurs thoughtfully, almost sounding surprised. Turning his hand, he stares at the lion pendant while absentmindedly brushing its mane that flows into a sword. “You know, my mom showed me this protection trick when she put her spell on Dog. She was a bit of a romantic, so I didn’t take it seriously when she said that it was a simple spell born from the heart, but now that I think about it…”

“Don’t say it,” I say a bit too abruptly when his thumb moves to brush along the tips of my fingers.

His verdant gaze lifts up from the pendant, revealing a soft but noticeable light. “And what shouldn’t I say?”

“That you think it was your love that has protected me this entire time.”

Seifer smiles with a smug curl of lips. “I hate to break it to you, Sherlock, but I think it sounds better from your lips than if I had said it myself.”

Scowling, I get out an adamant, “I didn’t mean—“ before my words are cut short by Seifer forcing his mouth against mine. My fleeting desire to rebel against his kiss is ruined when Seifer gently presses the lion pendant against my chest. Our intertwined fingers brush along the ring of burns, the feather-light touch causing my thoughts to scatter except for one trivial fantasy—if this is a taste of Seifer’s love, then I could very well be burned to ashes by the real thing.

Needing leverage, I jerk my injured hand from Seifer’s and bury my fingers into golden strands. It’s pathetically easy to convince myself that I can grab onto his hair and pull Seifer away if he starts to ask too much of me, not that I stop Seifer for even a breath while allowing him to deepen the kiss. His mouth is hot and tastes faintly of cherry from the Jell-O that one of the nurses smuggled for the blond before his discharge. It’s a wonder he isn’t hungrier after the meager dinner, but given the way he bites and licks within our kiss, I’m fairly certain that he’s confused about what urge he’s trying to satisfy.

Surprising me, Seifer releases my necklace to free his hand, but he doesn’t have any intention to break the kiss. Instead, he clumsily continues the kiss while removing his heavy wool jacket, his smile felt when I help to pull down on a stubborn sleeve. My hand moves to his chest and I breathe a laugh at the feel of my uncle’s shirt on the blond. The size is almost large enough for the collar to slip off Seifer’s shoulder. It’s not a look that works well for the former quarterback.

“Don’t laugh,” Seifer complains into our kiss. “If you laugh, my dick shrinks and your ogre of a godfather wins.”

“Hn, that would be disappointing,” I agree dutifully, not that I can stop my amused smile.

“That’s _it_ ,” Seifer announces before pulling back and yanking the shirt over his head. Tossing it onto the bed, Seifer points angrily at the piece of clothing. “This is the plan: we’re going to have fucking sex on this fucking shirt and give it back to the old man without washing it. That’ll teach him to stop messing with my head.”

Wanting Seifer close again, I jerk the larger man forward by grabbing onto the belt that keeps his borrowed pants from falling down. “Ward delivered these clothes because I gave his duplicate key to you and he had no other way to get your clothing.”

Seifer frowns at my logic. “The bastard could’ve bought me new clothes. He still owes me an apology, you know.”

“Perhaps, but I think that’s why he brought you something to wear,” I say while gazing up into irritated green. “He helped me to bring you home.”

With a breath of laughter, Seifer contends, “I can’t imagine the old man wanting to help me out of the hospital for the purpose of getting me into your bed, but if it’s true, then I’ll have to thank him the next time I see him.”

“Don’t antagonize him,” I warn, but my words fall upon deaf ears judging by the blond’s self-satisfied grin. It’s even worse when I feel enamored by his complete arrogance and foolish disregard for a man who has a license to carry a concealed weapon. Kissing the moron probably isn’t the best way to admonish him either.

I pull at Seifer’s belt with blind hands, the soft leather easily giving way as I release the belt buckle. His borrowed pants drop to the floor with a heavy noise, and after nearly bringing us both to the ground, Seifer kicks himself free of the voluminous material. I move my hands to his naked waist and drag my fingers forward to feel his flesh and bones beneath my touch, slowly reaching lower to his pelvis and coarse golden hair, and even lower to the heat of his swelled cock.

Seifer shudders with a groan of pleasure, but retreats in an awkward bend to make our kiss last a moment longer. “Not again, Sherlock,” Seifer mutters against my lips. “This time, I’m touching you.”

With a firm hand at my shoulder, Seifer guides me to the bed and encourages me to take a seat. He lifts both of his hands to my face and brushes back my hair before bracing my head in his hands. Green eyes shine with harsh thought before Seifer bends down to place a kiss next to the stitched skin between my eyes. I think to remind the blond that my injury isn’t his fault, but Seifer seems to anticipate my words and shushes quietly before placing a kiss against my jaw.

From there, Seifer moves lower to my neck and then my chest, his fingers and tongue barely avoiding dark burns even as my other scars and injuries appear to be free game. With subtle intent, Seifer gradually places more of his weight against me with every kiss until I find myself lying down on the mattress and his hands on my hips. He stares for a moment at the clear bulge of my pants, and then smiles an awkwardly fond smile before sliding a hand between my legs. I shiver at the direct touch, instinctively raising my hips for more of what I never thought Seifer would give me. Taking advantage, Seifer efficiently removes my pants and boxers to toss them in the general direction of the floor.

Moving onto the bed, Seifer lies down next to me with a warm light to his eyes. He places a hand to rest on my stomach, the tips of his fingers teasingly close to my erection. “Will you forgive me if I pass on giving you a blowjob tonight? I’m not certain how much my knee can take.”

“It’s okay if you can’t do it. You don’t need an excuse.”

Seifer frowns while leaning closer. “It’s not a matter of can’t, Squall, and the next time we do this, I’ll prove it.”

“Next time?” I ask flippantly, but barely get the words out before Seifer is kissing me again.

His hand slides downward such that his calloused fingers rub at the base of my penis, the indirect attention making my dick feel sore instead of relieved. I groan angrily at his teasing, to which Seifer smirks into our kiss, but he doesn’t prolong my suffering. A single finger strokes the underside of my length as if appraising its size and shape before Seifer takes a firm hold of my dick. His hand is rough and vaguely moist with sweat as he pumps in even strokes that match the rhythm of his tongue in my mouth. I quickly lose my breath at his maneuverings, and with my chest starting to hurt, I’m forced to grab his shoulder and forcibly break the kiss to save myself, not that it’s an easy matter to regain my breath when Seifer decides to use the opportunity to boldly stare at me while he brings my body closer and closer to release.

It’s with a hard squeeze and his lips mouthing the words, “Fucking beautiful,” that I come into Seifer’s hand.

My throat burns from the strength of my resulting groan, but it’s satisfying enough when Seifer echoes with a more pained sound as my hand manages to dig into fresh cuts on his shoulder. “Don’t say… ‘beautiful’…” I pant while pressing my fingers harder into an ugly bruise.

Seifer chuckles through his pain. “Have you ever watched yourself while masturbating? Because you don’t have a case otherwise.”

I glare at the hopeless blond, wondering if he actually believes in that warped logic of his.

Lifting his hand, Seifer firsts sniffs and then tentatively licks at the come soiling his palm. His nose wrinkles in vague distaste, but he stubbornly continues to lap at the warm semen.

“Moron,” I say within a laugh. To save him, I grab his hand and remove the lingering mess with my tongue, making certain to place two of his fingers into my mouth and suck harder than necessary while cleaning the digits.

“Fucking hell,” Seifer groans with an uncoordinated thrust against the side of my leg. “Condoms. You have condoms, yes?”

Somewhat reluctantly, I release his fingers with a slick sound and a heavy lick. “Where do most people keep things like that?”

Seifer blinks in a dull moment before looking across the bed at the single nightstand. Attempting the dexterity of a teenaged virgin, Seifer tries to reach the nightstand without aggravating his various injuries, but while he gets the drawer open, he puts too much weight on his bad leg when he attempts to look inside. Sighing at his pathetic display, I shove Seifer onto his back and climb over him to sit heavily on his stomach.

“Stop making your injuries worse,” I say a bit angrily.

“Normally, I’d agree with you there, Sherlock, but…” Seifer places his hands at my sides and rubs his thumbs along my ribs, somehow discovering that sensitive spot in the few opportunities I’ve allowed him. “I want this, and I’m afraid that if we don’t do this tonight, you’ll slip through my hands forever.”

“Seifer—“

“I’ve already wasted too many chances,” he interrupts sharply, “and I can’t afford another one. Not when I’m this close.”

My heart feels sore at his words, and when it becomes too hard to meet his desperate gaze, I reach over Seifer to grab a pair of condoms and a small bottle of lube. I drop one of the condoms onto Seifer’s chest while I put my teeth to the other one, freeing it from its wrapper. While it could be educational to make the blond do this for me, I decide for the sake of efficiency that it’ll be best to prepare myself instead. Ignoring Seifer’s curious stare, I place the condom over my fingers and coat the sheath with a healthy amount of lube before reaching for my asshole.

My fingers slip in with practiced ease, and I almost laugh at the irony of fingering my hole when Seifer is right beneath me. I’ve spent too many nights with one hand up my ass and the other at my cock while imagining Seifer as a replacement for my icy touch. Even now, my eyes drift close from pleasure and my mind automatically supplies the same old fantasies of the clueless blond, the images practically memories given the number of times I’ve had them as a hormonal teenager. It says something when the warm body between my legs feels more like the illusion than my fantasy of the jersey-wearing blond asking for me to help him remove his numerous constraining pads.

The sharp tear of a wrapper startles me out of the old fantasy, and looking down at Seifer, I watch as he spits out a torn sliver of plastic.

Noticing my stare, Seifer grins and shows the unwrapped condom. “You were planning to share that fine ass of yours, right?”

I briefly consider arguing that my fingers are enough, but it’s a lie before I even finish the thought. Leaning forward with an arm braced next to Seifer’s head, I tell the idiot, “Put the damned thing on already.”

Seifer’s grin widens before he kisses my mouth in a rough manner, apparently pleased with my demand. I feel his hands slip between our bodies, and when I’m certain that he’s ready, I push up from the mattress and give myself a final stretch before removing my fingers and tossing aside the used condom. Green eyes intense and unmoving while focused on my face, I shift my hips forward and reach back to guide Seifer’s cock to where I need it. I ease slowly onto his length, savoring each inch and twinge of muscle as I take Seifer deep into me.

“Fucking shit…” Seifer breathes into a groan.

My own breath lost, I don’t have I mocking comment for the man who hasn’t felt the tightness of an asshole around his cock. Unable to go all the way with the first try, I place a hand at Seifer’s chest and push up to the rim of the reddened head before dropping back down to get all of him. I gasp when his dick brushes against the perfect spot, something that usually takes numerous thrusts and blind luck. Leave it to the obnoxious blond to stumble upon it on the second try.

Surprising me, Seifer grabs my arm and lifts my hand such that I’m forced to wrap my fingers around his wrist to steady myself. His flirtatious grin replaced with something sober and resolute, Seifer doesn’t say anything while gazing at me, his stare somehow making me feel naked and exposed despite my already bare state. I shiver at the disturbing sensation, and needing to stop that stare of his, I begin a careful rhythm of thrusting myself repeatedly on his heated cock. It’s a mild relief when he finally narrows his gaze in pleasure.

His supporting hand clutching onto my arm, I move harder and faster than I have with previous partners, knowing that I stupidly trust Seifer more than anyone else. The bed creaks in an awkward off-beat to our heavy breaths, the collar of Ward’s shirt brushes against my knee with every push, and tiny pearls of sweat shine on Seifer’s chest before falling toward the dark bruise decorating his stomach, all of it reminding me that this is truly happening and not a crude fantasy that can’t match the imperfections of reality. Even so, my heart aches at my intention of tonight being a onetime occurrence.

I feel Seifer’s stomach tightening beneath me, and waiting for his release, I don’t anticipate his free hand lifting to my bare chest. An unrestrained cry escapes me at the touch of his fingers against my burns, the sensation going straight to my heart as if his hand was trying to caress away the pain I feel whenever I think too hard about a future without Seifer. Looking at his face, I find that damned viridian gaze focused on me with its frightening intensity and my irritation gets the better of me.

I act before thinking about it, my free hand grabbing the gauze taped between his eyes and ripping it off to cause him the same pain he has caused me for years. Seifer winces at the attack, but I soon realize the fault in my plan when his eyes find me again. Green irises seem brighter without the contrast of white cotton, and attracted to the sight of fresh stitches in pale flesh, I can’t look away from his face.

“Squall…” Seifer breathes while wrapping his hand behind my neck and using the support to lift himself up. He kisses in a hard press, his hands griping tightly when his release follows a moment later. His body pressed against mine, I feel his orgasm course through his body in sharp jolts, the sensation coaxing my own release as I curse into Seifer’s mouth.

Our kiss softens as our bodies cool down, and with a shaky breath, Seifer pulls away to rest his head on my shoulder. “Damn it, I’m so dizzy right now.”

Not expecting that as his first comment, a scoff of laughter escapes me. “I told you it was too soon.”

“And I keep trying to tell you that this happened far too late,” Seifer complains, his hand moving into my hair in a stroking motion.

I don’t try to argue, knowing that it’ll only make him more determined about his beliefs when it comes to the future.

After a few more calming breaths, Seifer says in a soft, almost embarrassed voice, “This was better.”

“’Better’…?”

“Than those dreams you hate so much,” Seifer clarifies. “They pale in comparison to the reality of being with you.”

A fool romantic, that’s what I should be calling him while escaping with my heart intact, but my voice doesn’t sound and I find myself leaning more of my weight against him, trusting the support of his larger body. Obviously Seifer isn’t the only fool here.

“I don’t know what you thought would happen tonight, but now I know that this isn’t a fleeting curiosity or a confused whim, and it’s definitely not a case of misdirected gratitude. If any of that was true, then I wouldn’t want to ask more of you,” he reasons with a kiss to my shoulder.

“Everyone thinks that after sex,” I comment in a rough voice.

“Fair enough, but does everyone feel the terror that I’m feeling at this moment? That you might turn your back on me before I have the chance to prove myself and make you mine?”

“Seifer…” I’m silenced with his hand pressed to my mouth.

“Don’t say anything. Just… stay with me for the rest of tonight. You can promise that much, right?”

Seifer sounds exhausted, and while he has plenty of reason to be tired, this seems to resonate from somewhere deeper. I pull back carefully, and with a hand lifted to his damp hair, I suggest softly, “You could use a shower. Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”

His eyelids drooping, Seifer smiles a pathetic smile. “That doesn’t sound like the best plan there, Sherlock. I might slip and crack my skull open.”

“I’ll be there to help you,” I insist.

His lips twisting into a sardonic smirk, he leans forward and presses his forehead against mine, the scratch of stitches felt against my skin. “So cruel, Squally-boy. So fucking cruel…”

I frown at his tone, but before I can question him, he exhales a strange sigh before slumping backward. I grab his arms before Seifer falls too far, and when I notice his closed eyes and limp position, I sigh softly at the man for passing out on me. After helping him to lie down, I move a hand to his neck in a paranoid need to feel for his pulse, which beats strong despite his state of low blood pressure. For all I know, that may be the problem itself.

I pull free of the blond, the noise loud and awkward without Seifer awake to say something obnoxious or to request a second round. I move to the bathroom and use a large cloth to wipe down my body, not in the mood for a shower when it could disturb Seifer. Wiping sweat from my chest, I try to ignore the twinge of pain the cloth causes along my burns, even as I wonder what will happen once those burns heal. Will Seifer’s touch ever reach as deeply as it did tonight? And even as the thought crosses my mind, I know that it doesn’t matter. Seifer always does something unexpected and incredible, just when I think I have everything figured out about him, and that’s what makes me addicted to the blond.

Chucking the cloth into the laundry bin, I grab a couple more cloths to wet and take back into the bedroom. Seifer hadn’t moved so much a finger, and I can’t stop a smile at the sight of him stretched across my bed in such a vulnerable manner. I quickly wipe down his legs and take note of the spots of blood on his bandaged leg, nothing surprising after his determination to push himself tonight. Deciding to change the gauze in the morning, I instead place more focus on cleaning the come from his dick and stomach.

When I use a fresh cloth on his chest, I focus a bit too long on his hardened nipples, the stray thought coming to mind that I haven’t had the chance to taste them yet. I shake my head to chase away inappropriate thoughts and force myself to move to his neck, at which point I notice the partial opening of his eyelids, no more than a slit to reveal dull green.

“Seifer?” I say softly, not entirely certain he’s awake.

Seifer places a limp hand over mine and rubs his thumb along bruised knuckles. “Will you always care for me like this?”

His eyes and voice suggest that the blond is barely conscious, and with the comfort of knowing that he shouldn’t remember my words in the morning, I decide to answer truthfully. “I won’t abandon you, Seifer. I can’t stop loving you, even when I’ve wanted to.”

The corner of his lips quirks into a smile. “Then I have time…. Always should be… long enough…”

His hand slipping from mine, I sigh at the hypocrisy of Seifer calling his mother a romantic when he obviously has the same trait, even when half-asleep. I finish cleaning the sweat from his neck and face, careful of his new stitches that look red and angry. I pull up the comforter, and somehow without waking him, I maneuver the larger man beneath the warm covering.

I hesitate for the length of a few heartbeats before crawling beside Seifer, knowing that he expects me to spend the rest of the night with him. I try to put my back to him, but I don’t last long before I face the unconscious blond and simply gaze at his face. I’m afraid of the morning, although I don’t know exactly why. Maybe it’s because neither of us have had relationships that lasted longer than a night or two of sex, or maybe it’s because a good night of sleep has the ability to give people a fresh perspective about the choices they need to make. Either way, it’s safer to watch Seifer asleep and with me in this present moment than close my eyes and risk a morning without him.

So much safer… and I hate that only Seifer can make me feel afraid of the future.

~ > < ~

“I knew it,” is the first thought that comes to mind, seconds before I’m conscious enough to realize that it’s morning and I’m alone in my bed. I stare dumbly at the empty pillow that Seifer had used last night, his impression left behind. Sunlight manages to sneak in between closed blinds, creating bright blocks of light on the wrinkled comforter as a poor substitute for Seifer’s warmth. My body feels heavy while lying there, and even when I know there are things I could do, I have no desire to move.

And then I smell burnt cinnamon.

Confused, I sit up and shift my gaze to the quiet noise of falling fabric that turns out to be my robe dropping from the bed. Knowing that I didn’t put it there, I slip off the mattress and reluctantly put on the robe when my bare skin shivers at the winter chill that no heater can completely chase away. With quiet steps, I move to the doorway of my bedroom and lean against the frame to watch the unexpected sight of Seifer in the kitchen.

Wearing his boxers and an untied robe, Seifer hums something under his breath while his hips sway and his bare feet move in a vague dance. His hands are occupied by a frying pan and a large spatula, and from the sight of the mess on my counter, it looks like he’s making French toast. While my stomach grumbles in hunger, I don’t have any desire to ruin whatever is happening here, at least not until I can understand it.

Eventually Seifer notices my stare and turns around to reveal that he didn’t bother to put on a shirt. That appealing fact, however, doesn’t linger in my mind for very long when Seifer smiles brightly in a fashion I haven’t seen since his football days, and damn me if it doesn’t make my heart skip a beat just like it did in the past.

“About time you woke up,” Seifer says. “You didn’t even blink when I tried to continue our activities from last night.”

With an eyebrow lifted, I question incredulously, “You molested me in my sleep?”

“I didn’t get my full night of pleasure,” Seifer complains as if it excuses his actions. “You were really out of it, though. I don’t remember you looking that tired last night, but I guess we both overdid things a bit.”

I don’t bother to correct him, not wanting him to know that I wasted most of the night staring at his face and occasionally taking the risk to touch his lips.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m starved. I’ve already gone through one helping of breakfast and I could go through about a dozen more,” he says while pulling two pieces of French toast from the frying pan and placing them on a plate before cutting them in half. Uncovering a second plate, Seifer sprinkles a healthy amount of powdered sugar over the two servings, the sight reminding me of the thick snowfall from yesterday. With the plates in hand, Seifer moves to the kitchen table and sets the homemade breakfast onto fresh place mats with silverware ready to go.

“What are you doing, Seifer?” I ask, confused by his act of playing house.

Seifer chuckles at the question. “Only you would feel paranoid about a lover preparing you breakfast.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I frown at his easy use of the word “lover.”

“To answer your question, I had a bit of a revelation when I woke up this morning. For days, I’ve been pushing you for an answer that I thought you didn’t want to give me, but you already have, haven’t you? Shit, you’ve probably answered me ten-times over, but I was too stupid to figure out how you’re the type to answer with actions instead of words.”

“What are you talking about?”

Smiling at my stubbornness, Seifer crosses the room to stand in front of me. “You could have shown me the door at any point in the last few weeks, but you didn’t. I even gave you the opportunity a couple times, but you insisted that I was allowed to stay if that’s what I needed. You’ve been giving me the chance that I’ve wanted, and I didn’t recognize it for what it was.”

“I did that because you needed help,” I correct, “not because I thought there could or should be something else between us.”

Seifer lifts a hand to brush dark bangs from my face. “Believe what you want, but whenever I look into your eyes, I see how much you want from me. I don’t know what I can give you, but from my point of view, I have time on my side.”

My heart stalls at his choice in words and I try to convince myself that he was barely conscious when I answered him last night and that he wasn’t in the right state of mind to understand my words. He couldn’t have been, or I wouldn’t have answered him like I did.

His smile shifting into a smirk full of confidence, Seifer says, “Always is a long time, Squall, and I’m determined to use every minute of it to make you love me even more.”

An argument forms in my mind, but my parted lips are quickly covered by a hot, needy mouth that tastes of cinnamon and vaguely of orange. Without thought on my part, my hands slide up his bare chest until I grab onto his shoulders, broad and strong beneath my fingers. His arm wraps around my waist while his other hand moves to my neck in a massaging motion, drawing an appreciative groan from me. I almost forget that I should be arguing with Seifer. Almost.

Pulling away for breath, I keep my hands at Seifer’s shoulders to prevent another attack. “You’ll get bored.”

“Maybe I will and maybe I won’t,” Seifer says while placing a kiss against my injured hand, “but despite everything else you know about me, I have one secret that you won’t be able to guess. A dark secret that came to me last night.”

I stare at him, suspicious about this supposed “secret.”

Smiling, Seifer bends down to whisper into my ear, “Oh no, I’m not going to make it that easy on you. How about… a year.”

“A year?”

Seifer hums in confirmation. “Ask me again in a year, Squally-boy, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

I scoff, annoyed at my own expectation of learning something new from the blond. “You’re assuming that you’ll be here after another year.”

“That’s the point, Sherlock,” Seifer says as he pulls back and gazes at me with shining green eyes. “Do you think you can wait that long?”

It’s a cheap challenge on his part, but stupidly enough, I feel more at ease with the idea of accepting this challenge rather than his constant request to let him prove his love for me. Logically, I know that is the exact game he is playing, to trick me into an easy pledge that leads to the same result, but it’s a hard game to refuse.

“What do you say, Squall?”

“…This ‘secret’ had better be worth it.”

Seifer smiles with a show of white teeth. “You can tell me after you hear it.”

I narrow my gaze on the blond, my skepticism heightening such that I’m certain the idiot wants the time to make something up. Why he needs the length of a year, I haven’t a clue, but it’s wholly suspicious and I don’t like suspicious. Before I can question him, though, Seifer places a finger at my lips and scolds me with a few tuts.

“A year, Sherlock, and not a minute sooner than that,” Seifer insists. Taking a step back, he reaches for my arm and pulls me toward the kitchen table. “Now, the first batch was pretty dark… well, half-burnt, but I think I did a better job for this batch. I’m not the chef you are, but it’s my grandma’s recipe, so be gentle when critiquing me.”

I let Seifer drag me to the table, and staring at the back of his neck, I muse that Seifer has suddenly taken the lead on this supposed path of his. He seemed so lost and wary weeks ago, and then he let me push him in whatever direction I thought was right. It’s a relief to watch him take his future into his hands again, and while his choice in paths makes me anxious, I need to know—how much stronger he’ll become, what other lives he’ll save, and even what fake secret he is hiding from me.

I want to know everything that Seifer will reveal to me, even if it takes another decade or a lifetime before I’m finally satisfied.

==========================================================================

[Epilogue]

[Seifer]

[A year later, plus a handful of days…]

Today is one of those weird winter days in Garden when the sun is out shining and the temperature is warm enough that a person can get away with wearing a light jacket, but there’s still a couple feet of snow piled up everywhere. It’s pretty much a kid’s dream to be able to play in the snow without being bundled to the point of immobility, and with that freedom, a horde of kids have taken over one of the larger parks. While some take advantage of the good weather to use the swings and other playground equipment, most of the kids have decided to build snow forts and wage war with snowballs. Lingering on the outer rim of that chaos, parents sit on park benches and chat over their high-priced coffee about the latest child-rearing advice on the market.

It would be a perfect winter day except for the fact that a child is missing and in serious trouble, not that anyone has noticed as of yet. The kids continue to scream with laughter and roughhouse in the snow, the activity annoyingly similar to the signs of a child fighting off a predator. I don’t know whether to be furious or disheartened when a piercing squeal doesn’t catch the fleeting attention of a parent, not even a vague lift of a head.

“Is this the place?”

I glance over my shoulder to find Squall standing at my side, his steps silent despite the icy snow covering the parking lot. I feel calmer just looking at the brunet, but that doesn’t stop me from making a small sidestep that puts us shoulder-to-shoulder. He’s not a warm man, but I can feel his strength and energy with that simple touch, and my confidence strengthens with the hope that a child isn’t going to die today. Not if Squall can help it.

“Seifer…”

“She came in that thing,” I say while nodding toward a minivan with stick-figure stickers on the back window. The collection supposedly represents the two parents, five kids of various ages, and pair of dogs, one of the more ridiculous fads I’ve seen. Muttering under my breath, I complain, “It’s like the parents want every predator on the block to know what selection of children are available for the taking.”

“I doubt that was their intent,” Squall argues dryly, his pale eyes scanning the crowd of children.

“Don’t bother,” I say, already getting a good look of the park. “That snowman over there was maybe half-finished when she walked off, and since she isn’t in the parking lot, the fucker must already have her.”

“Then where to next?”

A shadow of a smile crosses my lips while I linger on the dark-haired beauty—always logical, always looking for the next step forward instead of dwelling on missed opportunities, and it’s no wonder that I couldn’t do this without him. Squall frowns at my lack of urgency, and while I know better, I can’t help my baser desire to be selfish. I had such great plans for this morning, far better than running around and looking in various parks for an idiot girl who would fall for the cliché “I need help looking for my lost dog” trick that every pedophile has in his bag of tricks.

And even as I think it, I realize that I’m a horrible person for blaming that innocent soul for any of this, but damn it, it’s my fucking birthday and I never was very good at playing the hero.

Squall crosses his arms over his chest and gives me the look that says children always come first, and me acting like a child doesn’t count for anything. It’s amazing that he has put up with my nonsense thus far.

I sigh and place my back to the park to scan the forested area behind the parking lot and eventually set eyes on a collection of bushes that the girl thought would be a potential hiding spot for a scared dog. Without needing to say anything to Squall, I start off in that direction and try to remember the flashes in my dream—a tree with several initials carved into the trunk and a small pond that’s little more than a sheet of ice—but as we move farther into the surrounding forest, my spotty dream becomes unnecessary when the random mess of footprints in snow gradually dwindles until two distinct sets of footsteps are the only ones to continue farther.

After another hundred feet and beyond a second clump of bushes, I pause when the smaller footprints abruptly change from neat, defined imprints in snow and take on the signature of a child being dragged in an unexpected and unwanted direction. It’s a simple assumption to know that this is where the pervert used his leash on the girl’s neck, and while she didn’t have the strength to do much, my dream showed her getting in a solid punch to his nuts. I almost hope the bastard was erect when she did it.

Lost in my thoughts, I start and turn at a light touch to my shoulder, Squall right behind me. The brunet signals that he heard something down the way and that he’s going around from behind. I nod and pull out a small camera from my jacket pocket, a wise piece of advice from my lawyer when I was suspected of a crime that, in actuality, I had tried to prevent. The victim had been knocked out and the real mugger was quite the liar, but footage from a security camera eventually backed up my version of events. Quisty told me that I should bring my own camera the next time I decide to play cowboy, and while she may have been facetious, it was still good advice.

The camera switched on and recording, I move in the direction that Squall had indicated and eventually hear the angry mutterings and quiet groans of complaint that had attracted Squall’s attention. Cursing my previous stupidity to drag my feet when a little girl was in trouble, I increase my pace as best I can in layers of snow and stumble upon a picnic area that hasn’t been touched since the first snowfall. Untouched, that is, until this pervert found another use for it.

Startled by my entrance, the fucker stares at me from under the bill of an old baseball cap while he kneels on a concrete picnic table and keeps his hand down unzipped pants. Everything about the man is unremarkable from his average height, to his slight pudge of a stomach, to the dark hair that sticks out from under his cap. While there may be a handful of people who will say they always suspected there was something funny about him, the fact remains that the pervert has been allowed to hurt babies for who knows how long.

His current target lies limply beneath him with a bright blue leash loose around her neck and her pants tossed to the side. Her knitted hat is still in place, the decorative panda ears covered in snow. Light brown eyes gaze dully in my direction, but I can’t tell if she’s aware of anything, which may be for the better.

“What the fuck are you doing to that little girl?” I ask, trying to sound sincerely surprised for the camera.

The man blinks and stutters, “I… I found her… like…”

Not bothering to finish his lie, the pervert pushes off the table and drags the girl with him, one of his hands tightening the leash at her throat and the other clutching onto her arm in a death grip. “Back off or she’s dead.”

“Hey now, you don’t need to get that serious,” I say with arms raised in surrender and the camera still aimed in his general direction, “but I’ve got to warn you that there’s no way in Hell I’m letting you finish whatever business you have planned for that girl.”

Twitchy and looking like a rabbit ready to bolt, the man asks in rushed words, “What are you _doing_ here? Were you following me? Why do you have that camera?”

“Really? We’re playing that game where _I_ did something wrong?”

Obviously not a man made for confrontation, the pervert takes a nervous step backward. “You don’t understand. She… She came to _me_. I didn’t force her. I didn’t…”

In an abrupt move, the man releases the girl to run off in a panic. I hurry to help the girl left in the snow, not concerned about the escaping pervert when our little discussion gave Squall plenty of time to circle around and move behind the man. The fucker notices Squall about two steps too late, and without the dexterity or foothold to avoid the quietly enraged brunet, the man can’t dodge the roundhouse kick that lands solidly against the side of his head. The pervert falls hard in the snow, causing a brief explosion of snowflakes before Squall is on him with the heel of his boot lodged in the guy’s crotch. Thankfully Squall’s hand toying with a switchblade stays out of camera view.

“Easy now, Squall,” I say, even though I’d love to see the fucker lose his nuts. “This girl doesn’t need any more trauma for today.”

Squall makes a grunting noise that doesn’t sound very much like he’s agreeing.

With a shake of my head, I switch off the camera and move my attention to the poor girl who had started to struggle against me. I give her the freedom she wants and reach over to grab her discarded pants. “Sorry, they’re probably wet and colder than shit, but better than nothing, right?”

She snatches the pants from me, but doesn’t immediately put them on. Amber eyes wary, she glances between me and Squall. “Who… who are you?” she asks in a broken voice.

“Two guys who heard something suspicious,” I reply with a careful smile. “I’m Seifer and that angry guy who isn’t allowed to do anymore damage is Squall.”

She stares for a thought-filled second before saying, “I’m Yuffie.”

“Well, I would say it’s nice to meet you, kid, but circumstances could’ve been better.” I pull out my cell phone, select Selphie’s number, and nod at the girl. “Put those pants on. I’m calling the police, which means this place is going to be swarming with cops and your family in about two minutes here.”

Instead of being worried about her bare state, Yuffie’s face scrunches into a pained expression before I suddenly have an armful of a sobbing and hysterical kid. Sighing, I place a hand at her head and get in a couple of consoling words before Selphie’s voice sounds over the phone. Soon enough I have the lady detective yelling at me in one ear and the girl crying against my shoulder next to my other ear, and with a pointed glare at Squall, I mouth the words, “Help me.”

Squall smirks faintly, but doesn’t move except to place more weight on the pervert’s dick, drawing a pathetic squeal from the equally pathetic man.

I sigh, once again bemoaning the wasted hours of my birthday. What a day to turn fucking thirty.

~ > < ~

“Come on, Squall, I know you have a thing about family and all, but can’t we call in sick this once? There’s still time.”

The brunet glances at me from the driver’s seat of his relatively new truck, something of a birthday and celebration gift wrapped into one high-priced present from Laguna when the man’s first book in years became a surprising best seller this summer. The critics gave high reviews for the story that begins with a female warrior battling through a destroyed city in search of her child and gradually reveals itself as the story of a mental patient unable to communicate with her family. Raine was his obvious inspiration, but according to Squall, Laguna always uses his family and friends within his tales.

Even though it’s apparent that Squall isn’t about to budge on dinner with the family, I knock my head against the side window and continue to push the point. “Seriously, we spent all morning looking for that girl, and then we had to spend the rest of the afternoon giving police reports and dealing with that girl’s family. Do you know how hard that father slapped my back and how many times? If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he was trying to beat the shit out of me.”

“You promised my mother that if she was released in time for the holidays, we would help her make a big dinner for the family. Today happened to be the best day for everyone involved.”

“Not for me,” I complain, but it’s becoming obvious that I’m not going win. Despite removing Roth from her life, Raine had been severely traumatized for years and recovery wasn’t something that could be achieved in a day, let alone a handful of months. The one goal that drove her forward was sharing Christmas with her family and friends, and like so many years before, my birthday somehow became the innocent victim to Christmas. I was prepared to make the sacrifice of my evening for a leisurely morning, but then that vision came last night…

“Endure it for a couple of hours,” Squall concedes as he turns onto the street leading to the Loire house, “and then we can do whatever you want.”

My mood instantly perked by the promise, I sit up straighter in my seat. “Don’t toy with me, Squall. I’m a desperate, starving man.”

Squall scoffs at my dramatics, but doesn’t completely suppress a curl to his full, perfect lips. If he wasn’t driving right now, I’d kiss him until he was in the bed of the truck and buck-naked, something that would be a repeat of Squall’s birthday and a christening of the truck, but worthwhile all the same.

The Loire house is visible within a couple of blocks given the large inflatable polar bear that bobs in a slight breeze, and if it was darker out, the numerous Christmas lights would have stood out even farther back. We’re not the first to arrive judging by Ellone’s minivan parked in the driveway, and I cringe at the new addition of stick figure stickers on the back window. I may have to ask Laguna if he has a razor blade that I can use to scratch the damn things off before Ellone notices or can argue.

The truck parked on the street, we walk up the drive to the front door. I hear the distinct laughter from Squall’s niece and nephew beyond the door, the kids apparently enjoying themselves before being forced to act civil during a lengthy dinner. Squall knocks between decorations of clumsily painted pinecones, the brunet showing a vague smile as I assume he heard the kids, too.

When the door swings open, I stare in surprise at Faith and Alec dressed in very bright and very tropical shirts that have no place on anyone younger than sixty.

“Happy birthday, Uncle Seifer!” the kids yell somewhat in sync, then followed by a louder chorus of, “Happy birthday!”

Dumbfounded, I blink at the kids and then look past them to find the room a lot more crowded than I was expecting. A lot more colorful, too. The Christmas tree I saw just the other week is gone, replaced by a small palm tree with a fake parrot sitting on top. The stockings are missing, the fireplace mantle instead lined with bottles of rum and toys of random exotic animals, mostly monkeys. The best, however, are the number of loud, tropical shirts in this single room, each one tackier than the next.

“What in the world is happening here?” I ask, looking at Squall if only to save my eyes from the burn of bright colors.

Before he can answer, a small hand tugs at my jacket. “Uncle Seifer, Uncle Seifer, do you really hate Christmas?”

Ellone sighs out her son’s name, a scold that is barely heard overly the chuckles from the other adults in the room. I, however, like the blunt nature of young kids, and with a grin, I kneel down to be eye-to-eye with the boy. Alec is a cute brat with shaggy brown hair, a slight lisp, and deep brown eyes that have the magical power to convince any warm-blooded adult to do his bidding. He’s not the brightest kid on the block, but his airy nature just adds to his charm.

“Hate is a little strong,” I tell the eight-year-old, “but yeah, I don’t like Christmas very much.”

“But… but everyone likes Christmas,” he insists. “Why don’t you?”

“Du-uh, it’s because his birthday is so close to Christmas,” Faith intercedes with a roll of her eyes. Two years older, Faith is everything her brother isn’t—intelligent with a sharp tongue, independent to a fault, and a complete tomboy. Even her dirty blonde hair is shorter than her brother’s current style, but Faith seems to cherish her little brother despite their differences. Of course, she’s only ten—I give her to the end of middle school before she’s embarrassed by her entire family.

To finish her argument, Faith speculates, “I bet that he got only one present for both his birthday _and_ Christmas from everyone because they were distracted by Christmas.”

“Only one?” Alec asks with a blink. “Was it at least a big present?”

I chuckle at their assumptions. “You’re on the right track, midgets, but that isn’t why I don’t like Christmas. Maybe when you’re older, I’ll tell you the whole boring story.”

Ruffling their hair and partly using their heads as support, I stand up and grin when the kids run off with playful squeals to avoid further abuse.

From the corner of my eye, I see Ellone smiling that mothering smile of hers before she walks up with a mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

Even when wearing a shirt covered in neon pink flamingos, the woman is beautiful with fair skin and warm eyes, and while I know that she was adopted into the Loire family, she has a strong energy about her that both Squall and his father share. She also does the overprotective thing very well. The first time we met, she welcomed me like a lost brother, but the minute Squall disappeared to the bathroom, she “subtly” informed me that her husband is part of a special ops team in the Navy and that he doesn’t have any qualms about killing people who deserve it. When I tried to laugh, her bastard of a husband smiled in reply and toyed with a butter knife.

Normally I would consider it an exaggerated threat, but Ellone had the same light in her eyes that Squall shows whenever he’s perfectly prepared to accept the consequences of killing a man. To make matters worse, Squall doesn’t believe me when I insist that, if he doesn’t forgive me for my more stupid mistakes, I’ll probably be dead within the week. It’s a lucky thing that Ellone has slowly warmed up to the idea of me invading Squall’s life.

“Happy birthday, Seifer,” Ellone says with a kiss to my cheek, “and thank you for not ruining Christmas for my children.”

“You probably shouldn’t be thanking me just yet. After all, the night is young and they are adorably impressionable.”

“We both know that you wouldn’t do anything to break their hearts,” she says with a light backhand against my chest. “And now, I have to finish dinner before this mob gets restless.”

Once Ellone moves out of earshot, Squall leans over and asks softly, “When did the kids start calling you ‘Uncle’?”

“When we were babysitting last night and you left me alone with the brats because Laguna locked himself out of his car,” I reply while removing my jacket. “The girl was complaining about calling her aunt’s new husband ‘uncle’ when the guy has only been in the picture for three months. She said she’d rather call me ‘uncle’ and the boy happily agreed without understanding why. I honestly didn’t think it’d stick longer than last night.”

With an incredulous look, Squall comments, “You call them ‘the girl’ and ‘the boy,’ and you expect me to believe they decided on their own to call you ‘uncle’.”

“I think they know their own names, Sherlock. They don’t need me to remind them.”

Taking my jacket, Squall sighs and mutters something under his breath about needing to apologize to his sister.

When I turn around, I’m blindsided and almost knocked off my feet when a heavy hand shoves something against my chest.

“Welcome to old age, son,” Ward says with a broad grin and a vindictive light to pale eyes.

“I’m still half your age, old man, and much better looking,” I retort, but my attention promptly shifts to the large amount of bright green fabric beneath my nose. “Oh hell no, I told you last year that I’m done wearing your clothes.”

“I’ve been informed that the dress code is mandatory,” he states dryly while motioning to his own shirt covered with sailboats the size of cruise ships on his immense frame. “Since this is your fault, I insist that you join us and drink the Kool-Aid.”

Lifting up the shirt, I wince at the green and yellow designs of pineapples, parrots, and sunglasses. It’s a true monstrosity that ranks in the same league as an ugly Christmas sweater my grandmother gave me when I was young and innocent. Still, if everyone else is willing to do this for me, then I guess I should entertain them in return. The shirt slips easily over my other clothes, and with the snickers from the living room, I have a sneaking suspicion that it looks like I’m wearing a muumuu over my jeans.

“You look great,” Laguna cheers with a slap to my shoulder. “I’m glad that you’ve decided to play along. Squall wasn’t entirely certain that you’d appreciate the theme.”

I glance suspiciously at the brunet. “You weren’t saving your dad from a locked car last night, were you?”

“Is that what he told you?” Laguna asks with a laugh. “No, no, he was here helping with decorations and making your cake. I believe he mentioned that leaving you with Faith and Alec was the only guaranteed way to keep you from chasing after him and ruining the surprise.”

“Is that so?” I say while still focused on Squall, the man simply shrugging in response.

Carefully stepping close, Raine smiles and comments, “He insisted that you would complain if he didn’t make the ‘right’ cake for you and that you would know if someone else did it.”

“He knows me well,” I agree before turning my attention to Squall’s mother.

Over the last year, Raine has slowly regained the beauty that I always envisioned for the woman—dark chestnut hair that slips over her face, fair skin that blushes easily, and an impish smile that suggests she knows more than she’ll ever tell. Returning home has done more for Raine than a hundred doctors, but there are still traces of her trauma. She continues to shy away from people, a habit born out of her fear to taint others with the toxic presence that surrounded her. She has battled against that quirk and has reached the point of cautiously holding her husband and children in her arms, but I’m an annoying exception. Apparently angels should only be seen and not touched, and one of these days, I’m going to give that woman a bear hug to prove her wrong.

Perhaps sensing my thoughts, Raine retreats slightly and says, “We should let the boys socialize with their friends.”

“Of course, of course,” Laguna agrees. “We’re still missing a few people, so the main event can wait until they arrive.”

The adults wander off to the dining room while laughing about some past birthday event and a vague comment about matching tattoos. After an amused shake of my head, I look to the other people in the room, all familiar and welcomed faces. My first objective is to steal the blond, curly-haired butterball from the hands of one Fuujin Dincht before her husband can argue, and with the recklessness of someone who doesn’t have his own kid to manhandle, I swing the baby boy up above my head.

“Dammit, Almasy, be more careful. He doesn’t like it—“

A squeal of laughter erupts from the infant, and with chubby arms and legs waving, Troy begins the long path of constantly trying to prove his parents wrong. I toss him up into the air, no more than a couple of inches from my waiting hands, and then lower him down to my chest. “Sorry to say it, Dincht, but I don’t think this one is going to inherit the Chickwuss legacy.”

Zell scoffs and points an angry finger at me. “Just you wait until Monday. I’m going to kick your ass from here—“ Interrupted again, Zell’s threat ends with a loud “oof” when Fuujin slams a heavy fist into his gut.

“Language,” she warns.

I chuckle under my breath, knowing exactly how it feels to be on the receiving end of her punches. After a particularly messy situation with a bounty, I decided that I needed to learn some defensive moves if I was going to stand at Squall’s side. Fuujin was busy raising a newborn and all, and there was no way I could wrestle with Squall without it leading to something else, so I reluctantly went to the Chicken. Zell was a fucking dick about it at the beginning, but once he realized that I was serious, he made me understand why Squall respected him as a trainer. Zell and I aren’t exactly friends and I don’t imagine we will be, but that just makes our spars more entertaining when I get the guy worked up.

“Happy birthday, Seifer,” a voice calls and I look to the munchkin sitting on the armrest of a sofa couch, his boyfriend occupying the actual seat portion while subtly resting a hand at the kid’s back. Over the last year, Sora had a touch of a growth spurt, but it doesn’t seem likely that he’ll make it to average height, not that he needs to be with the sheer guts he has. The kid is still in the foster care system even though Riku’s parents offered to adopt him directly after the incident with Cloud and Roth. While he appreciated the thought, Sora didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of basically dating his brother, so he politely refused. Of course, Riku is graduating this year and Sora will be old enough for emancipation, so I think the boys have vague plans to shack up wherever Riku decides to go to college.

“Surprised that you two are here,” I comment lightly. “Are you really wasting your winter vacation on an old man like me?”

Sora grins with a full show of teeth. “Squall said there would be cake.”

“And that’s all it takes to win him over,” Riku murmurs with a fond grin at his small boyfriend.

I chuckle at the pair while dodging the tiny hand shoved at my face, Troy intently interested in my lower lip. “There are worse things to sell a soul for.”

After an I-told-you-so look at Riku, Sora perks up and asks, “So hey, do you really have a thing against Christmas because of presents? Shouldn’t you have gotten over that by now?”

While Riku groans with embarrassment into his hand, I smile and say, “It wasn’t specifically because of presents, but it kind of was, too.” When Sora directs a confused blink at my conflicting reply, I clarify further, “My mom loved Christmas and was always determined to get me the nicer presents she didn’t get as a kid. The problem is that nice presents require money, and money requires working two or three jobs. Since seasonal jobs were the easiest to land, she wasn’t around much from Thanksgiving until after the New Year.”

“Does that also mean she wasn’t home on your birthdays?”

I turn at the softly offended voice and gaze at my intelligent lover. “Well, I can’t blame her too much—she honestly thought it was worth it for a perfect Christmas. Actually, I’m pretty certain that she was disappointed when I wasn’t born on Christmas day.”

“That’s kind of depressing, man,” Zell contributes.

It’s a valid statement, but before I can attempt to lighten the mood, the front door swings open and the relieved call of “We made it!” carries throughout the house. I barely turn around when a small, lively woman attaches herself to my neck and cheers, “Happy birthday, you marvelous bastard!”

“Careful there,” I warn within a laugh. “I have a fragile package here.”

“You do?” Selphie asks, and then hops back a step to hold out her arms with beckoning hands. “Give me that handsome man and I’ll forgive you for that mound of paperwork you caused today.”

“Technically, that wasn’t my fault,” I retort while reluctantly passing Troy over to his godmother, vaguely concerned that her yellow, flower-bedecked shirt may blind the young infant.

“Oh, don’t worry—that horrible, horrible man has been locked up and won’t be touching anymore cuties. I threatened to bring Squall back into the room and the sicko confessed to two other attacks that we’ve been investigating for the last few months.”

A soft sigh sounds from the front door. “Did you really take video this time?”

I smile at Selphie’s apparent ride for the night, Quistis Trepe somehow managing to appear prim and proper while wearing a shirt covering in purple palm leaves. Her blond hair is held back in a painfully tight bun per her usual style, sharp blue eyes peer through designer glasses, and her makeup is impeccable despite this being a casual event. Meanwhile, her little girl is a powerhouse of energy bundled into a frilly pink dress, and once spotting Alec in the kitchen, Gina pulls on her mother’s arm while balancing on her toes. After a slight nod from Quistis, the girl shows a bright smile and chases after her reluctant prince, Goldilocks-styled hair bouncing behind her.

Walking to stand next to Squall, Quistis folds her arms over her chest. “How do you always get mixed up into these situations?”

“I guess I’m just lucky that way,” I hedge, knowing that it’s better to leave the lawyer in the dark, not that she’d readily believe me anyway.

The evening continues forward with various topics of discussion and general catching up for the people who haven’t seen each other in months. Dinner is particularly loud with good food, plenty of laughter, and people raising their voices to talk over each other. Eventually it becomes a little much for me, especially when the kids rediscover the piano in the back corner, and needing fresh air, I sneak off to the patio. Watching through the glass door, I think about how amazing it is how this particular group has come together from completely different sources of tragedy, and yet we all had one source of salvation.

The man in question stands out like a sore thumb while wearing a simple gray sweater, but I’ve never had much trouble spotting Squall within a crowd. And with blue-gray eyes shifting my way, I smile at Squall’s sixth sense of knowing when I’m watching him.

Sneaking off, Squall walks to my hiding place. “This is your party, you know.”

“And a great time at that, but I have to admit that I was expecting something a lot quieter for tonight. You really surprised me, Squally-boy.”

“I believe that’s the point of a surprise party.”

I laugh tiredly at his dry remark and lift a hand in his direction to beckon him closer.

Squall obeys to a point, but stands just out of reach when he asks, “What is your dark secret?”

My eyes widen at the unexpected question. “You… You remember that?”

With a shrug, Squall says, “You told me to wait a year.”

“And it’s been a week longer than that, you fucking tease. Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“I was afraid that you might need more time to make something up.”

A laugh escapes me at his assumption. “Well, you’re about to be disappointed.” I lunge forward to get my arms around his waist and drag the man closer such that we’re eye to eye. “What have I already told you about how my grandparents met?”

With a suspicious glance, Squall decides to play along. “You mentioned that your grandfather was on a date with another woman when he met your grandmother.”

“That’s right, my grandmother was a fortuneteller at a carnival and my grandfather’s date was a sucker for that sort of stuff. My grandfather liked to say that he thought my grandmother was a complete fraud, but a beautiful fraud, and it was inevitable that he went back to the carnival to have a more personal reading. Of course, my grandmother denies that she faked the card reading that led to their first date.”

Squall tilts his head as if to ask, “What does any of this matter?”

“I’m getting there,” I assure with a grin. “See, my grandfather was a very serious man. He didn’t shower my grandmother with roses or jewelry while they were dating; instead, he’d do practical things like buy groceries and take her and her young daughter out to dinner. A lot of people didn’t understand why they were together and they thought my grandmother was crazy when she accepted his marriage proposal, but my grandmother had a secret, one that she refused to reveal to my grandfather until they were married year later. She was afraid that her wedding wouldn’t happen if she revealed her secret before then.”

Squall tenses slightly, his eyes dark gray from evening shadows. “I thought I asked about your secret, not hers.”

“Well, it’s something I learned from my grandfather when I was older, and I thought it was my grandmother’s usual nonsense… until I started living with you.” Lifting a hand to his face, I trace my fingertips along the scar between his eyes before I brush aside dark bangs. “The thing is, Squall, when you—“

“Time for presents!” Selphie announces from the patio door, interrupting a moment I have imagined for months upon months.

Glaring at the lady detective, I growl out a frustrated, “Can’t you tell that we’re a little busy here, gunslinger?”

“Oh please, you can grope Squall whenever you want,” she argues with a fist planted to her hip. “Meanwhile, the rest of us want cake, but presents always come first.”

“It’s okay,” Squall says for both of us, the man sneaking out from my arms. “This can wait.”

“Come on, I’ve waited a year while they have waited _maybe_ five minutes,” I complain even as I follow the moving brunet. “Don’t I have seniority?”

With a glance of sultry blue, Squall points out, “We’ll have the rest of the night together.”

Lost in a sudden fantasy of what the night might entail, I’m easily lured inside with Squall’s lead, and once in range, I’m pushed into the sofa chair Riku and Sora had been occupying. I look up at expectant faces, and reminded of the numerous brightly colored shirts in the room, I reluctantly concede that I shouldn’t be annoyed by these people who only want me to enjoy my birthday. At the least, it’s not their fault that Squall decided now of all times to ask me about my secret.

And with the first present tossed onto my lap, I fully surrender to my momentary fate and tear off the wrapping paper with pleasure. The new sparring pads are an expected, but greatly needed gift from Fuujin and Zell as I’ve worn out my last set. Everyone gets a laugh from Riku and Sora presenting me with a gift card to Ward’s diner, especially when my meals are free as a full-time server there. They insist that I can treat Squall to a dinner, the boys clueless about Squall’s status of silent partner.

The subsequent gift is somewhat a mystery when no one immediately claims it, and opening the box, I stare at the leather gun holster that appears well made and too expensive for my tastes. The note inside only increases my surprise. “Holy shit, that Irish bastard got me this?”

Squall shrugs. “Donovan seems to like you and insisted that I bring it.”

I wave the note at the brunet. “It’s not me he likes, Sherlock. He says that I need to be a better bodyguard and that he’ll get me a gun the next time we meet.”

With an unsurprised grunt, Squall comments, “You’ll want to figure out a nice way to refuse. I imagine most of his guns have questionable backgrounds.”

“I didn’t hear that,” Selphie says with hands comically pressed to her ears whenever Donovan’s name comes up.

I almost toss the present aside, but glancing at the holster, I think about all of the times when Squall has got himself into a messy situation, times when I was little better than useless. A gun wouldn’t solve everything, but having a weapon in my hand might make me feel less anxious about Squall getting himself killed by a jumpy bounty with a knife. Definitely something to ask Calamity Jane about when there aren’t little kids around to ask why I’d want to kill someone.

The next present is another shocker as Ward had somehow snagged a Rose High School jersey with my old number on it, the sentimental bastard. Selphie, Quisty, and Ellone went the safe route with gift cards to a couple stores where I get my clothes. Selphie, however, included a list of items that show off my best features. A small painting of twin, lengthy white lights within darkness comes from Raine, and while I don’t get the reference, it’s an interesting painting nonetheless. Laguna’s gift is a handful of pages from his next book, and with a few skimmed lines, I know that it’s about my mother. There’s nothing to say but a quiet “thank you” to the man, to which Laguna promises to do his best with her story.

As planned, the last gift is from the Squall. The size and general shape of a thick CD case, I half-fear that the logical brunet had gotten me some kind of financial software to help me with my pledge to pay him back for every cent he has spent on me. I unwrap the small present carefully, relieved when I don’t see any writing on the plain black box. I open the lid with less apprehension, but immediately freeze at the sight of an index card with the words, “Don’t say you don’t have a future beyond me.”

My heartbeats rapid and strong, I lift up the card to find a silver ring with a brushed finish down the middle while the sides have been polished mirror bright. A slight shadow makes me lift the ring with a shaky hand and read the inscription inside, “Together, we walk this path.” The dark flecks of dried blood make the words even more perfect, even if there’s no power to the offering.

While I hear the excited comments from the others around us, I can’t focus on their words. Lost in my thoughts, I try to figure how Squall knew about my dark dreams. Perhaps he guessed what I would tell him, something he’s frighteningly good at, but Squall isn’t a man to write his guesses down like a magic trick. No, he _knew_ that I was going to tell him about my grandmother’s story and also knew what that story would be.

My grandmother wasn’t a strong medium compared to my mother and me, but she had our same trouble with haunting dreams and lacking sleep. With no other choice, she dealt with those dreams for most of her life, but once she accepted a marriage proposal for the second time and shared her fiancé’s bed, she was blessed with nights of pure, comforting darkness. At first, she thought it was a fluke, but eventually realized that it was simply another dream. A dream of nothing.

I was young when my grandfather told me about his wife’s dark dreams, the one thing my grandfather actually talked about when it came to our family’s abilities, although I always thought it was ridiculous. While most of my nights have been ruined by foreseeing dreams or nightmares of past dreams, there have also been nights of easy sleep and a chance to recover before the next terrible vision. I thought my grandmother was confused by those nights of true sleep… and then I had a dark dream.

It came after my first night with Squall, the first time he honestly admitted to loving me, and just as my grandfather described, it was a dream of absolute nothingness. Despite the overwhelming darkness, my thoughts didn’t once turn toward the fears of demons and death; instead I felt warmth and peace within that lack of an urgent and pressing future. Eventually I understood the meaning behind the empty vision, a revelation that made me smile through a few embarrassing tears.

For the first time in my life, nothing was more important than the present, and it was because Squall finally allowed himself to be mine.

Pulling out from that memory, I look to the brunet and ask in a barely sounding voice, “How did you know?”

His arms crossed protectively over his chest, Squall glances at the others in the room, but still choses to answer, “If I were to guess, I would say that your mother is incredibly persistent.”

“Wha…? My mother?”

“Recently, I’ve had some very hazy, very repetitive dreams.”

Still not understanding, I stare at the impossible man and slowly come to the conclusion that I have a ring in my hand and I’m very possibly focused on the wrong thing here. A stupid smile crossing over my lips, I stand up from my chair and walk toward the pale-eyed man. Squall watches my every step, his gaze both stern and cautious in an odd display of emotion, not that he has anything to fear. It’s strange how he can know everything except for that.

“You got me a ring,” I say with an unintended hint of awe to my voice.

One of his eyebrows lift in a silent statement that I’m stating the obvious.

Holding back laughter that could only be embarrassingly giddy and loud, I move in close to the brunet such that we’re almost nose to nose. “And what should I do with this ring?”

“Whatever you want,” the brunet replies in a terribly anticlimactic, unfortunately Squall-like fashion.

My smile begins to fade at his unreadable front. “Wait, you can’t mean… This is just about jewelry?”

“Is it supposed to be about something else?” Squall asks, to which I stare in sore disappointment. A pair of groans also sounds from our audience, Selphie and Sora being my best guesses. Reacting to that, the brunet sighs and attempts to explain, “I wanted to give you something like your necklace to me, but you won’t wear a necklace in fear of being strangled. Watches don’t last longer than a week around you, and since I don’t like bracelets on men and you don’t have any piercings, a ring was the best option left to me.”

Continuing to stare, I wonder at the fairly long explanation from the reticent man. Practically a speech, really, and stated in a direct manner that sounds practiced and well-thought out. It’s a perfectly good reason to get me a ring without involving a lifelong commitment or risking the only thing fragile about the brunet—his uncontrollable emotions. A perfectly good reason, that is, except that it isn’t what either of us wants.

“Son of a bitch,” I murmur before lifting the ring and wagging it at Squall’s face. “You’ve gotten better at lying, Sherlock.”

Pale blue-gray stares back with only a hint of apprehension in the otherwise neutral gaze.

“Sorry, but I’m not going to play your game,” I say as I force the ring into his hand. “I won’t wear that thing until you place it on one of my fingers. And before you think to lie again,” I add while leaning in close to his ear, “I should warn you that wherever you put the ring, that’s where it stays.”

Squall shows me a look that he saves for whenever I’m being too dramatic for his tastes, but he seems to take my warning seriously when he glances down at my hands and considers his next move. My body tenses when I realize that I had made a very bold and risky bluff against this man who doesn’t have a reputation of showing his true feelings. For all I know, Squall would be satisfied with the simple claim of a ring on my hand and doesn’t care about the traditional placement of said claim. With that thought in mind, I’m not terribly surprised when he reaches out to my right hand, the act causing a moan of “you stupid man” from Selphie, not that I know if she’s criticizing Squall or me.

And then full lips show the barest flicker of a smile.

“You fu—“

Squall pinches my hand to prevent crude language in front of sensitive ears, and with my attention distracted, he swiftly uses his other hand to slip the silver ring onto its proper finger. The lettering feels hot against my skin while the metal is winter cold, making me wonder just how long this ring has been hiding in his truck. My laugh isn’t loud as my breath is lost to relief, which makes the sound quickly smothered by the variety of cheers, catcalls, and a single groan from our witnesses. This moment is practically mystical compared to my life little more than a year ago, a time when I dreamed and hoped for something better, and yet I didn’t have a clue that “better” could possibly entail someone like Squall Loire.

Bending down, I steal a chaste kiss from the cruel man. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” I say softly for Squall alone, my lips still brushing against his.

Tensing, Squall pulls back and warns, “I can always return it.”

“Your inscription kind of ruins the ring and your threat,” I reason.

“A pawn shop, then.”

Ignoring his worrisomely serious tone, I lift my hand to his neck and lightly purr when my ring clinks against his thick necklace. No doubt about it, I’ve found myself on a strange path with this man and the people around us, but while each step I take is as terrifying as the last, I’m not afraid to move forward. Not when Squall is there at my side.

“Always be there,” I beg shamelessly.

Squall stares for a quiet moment before lifting his hand to mine. He doesn’t say anything, but words are far from necessary when he strokes the newly placed ring and his eyes shine like finely crafted metal. I’m his collared wolf, and while I probably should be offended on some level, I find myself stealing another kiss from the strict man and with far less reserve than before. His tongue finds mine and my resulting groan of pleasure sounds like a growl to my ears. Squall presses closer and tightens his hand around mine, almost painfully so when my fingers are crushed against my ring, but I have no complaint.

With his strong grasp on my hand, I know for certain that, as long as he walks beside me, Squall won’t let me fall.

Not now and never again.


End file.
